


Conversion Therapy

by Casey679



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha John Winchester, Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Angry Sex, Angst, BAMF Dean Winchester, BAMF John Winchester, BAMF Sam Winchester, Beta Bobby, Bottom Sam Winchester, Branding, Claiming Bites, Cock Cages, Cock Piercing, Collars, Come Marking, Conditioning, Depressed Sam Winchester, Discipline, Dom/sub Undertones, Face-Fucking, Forced Bonding, Forced Orgasm, Forced Turning (Alpha to Omega), Gags, Gang Rape, Hand Feeding, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Idjits, Knotting, Leashes, M/M, Masturbation, Mating, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega Sam Winchester, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Dean Winchester, Prostate Milking, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective John Winchester, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Mpreg But There Will Be None In This Fic, Sam Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sam-Centric, Scent Marking, Self-Mutilation, Tasers, Top Dean Winchester, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester, Training, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-04 12:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 93,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4137795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casey679/pseuds/Casey679
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam walks out after a fight with John, only to encounter an aggressive group of alphas. After he beats them soundly in a fight, they turn the tables and force him through a barbaric "bitching" ritual to turn him omega. John and Dean must now find a way to get Sam to behave like a "proper" omega, under the threat that Sam could be taken away, publicly humiliated and/or assigned to some other alpha. Sam resists, because he's still the same competent hunter he always was and he doesn't see why he should be treated differently. It all comes down to a painful-drawn out battle of wills between John and Sam against a ticking clock that will bring ramifications none of them expect. The Winchester family dynamics will have to shatter and be rebuilt from the ground up if the three of them are to come through this crisis intact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wrong Fucking Everything

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a [very long prompt](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/97375.html?thread=37543519#t37543519) set in a particularly unpleasant A/B/O universe where omegas are second-class citizens, expected to be subservient and submissive to their alphas or face public humiliation and mistreatment.
> 
> Because of this, readers should be warned that in this fic: a) worthwhile people will be treated horribly; b) terrible, non-consensual things will happen; c) good people will sometimes make questionable and even terrible choices out of desperation, confusion, ignorance and/or lack of better options; and d) this particular society is way too messed up for there to be any easy or widespread fix for a-c. If you are easily triggered, this is probably not the fic for you. Please read the tags, as I have tried to be exhaustively thorough with them.

There was a biological explanation for all of it, or that's what Dean had always been told. He wished he could remember it all now, wished Sammy was able to explain it all in geeky detail.

Beta was the most dominant gene, that much he knew. It hadn't always been, in fact at one point it didn't even exist, and scientists now considered it an evolution of the original alpha and omega gene due to its far greater stability. It was an adaptation to the modern world, a world where smell and instinct weren't as important, where single births were viable due to better medical conditions, where mating was based on compatibility and divorce didn't have devastatingly painful physical repercussions. As Bobby and Pastor Jim could attest, being a beta meant not being controlled by your biology, hormones or weird evolutionary instincts.

Not that Dean would know, being an alpha.

But betas were still a new development, in the evolutionary scheme of things. For the longest time, alpha had been the dominant gene, and society had been primarily alphas and omegas, real caveman style. Alphas were built to fight, to protect, to lead. Omegas were built to nurture, to submit, to serve. Because omegas tended to bear multiple young in each pregnancy, Mother Nature had seen fit to offset that with a relatively low omega birthrate – something on the order of three alphas born for every omega – and a regular rut-and-estrus fertility cycle to stabilize population growth.

Of course, because Mother Nature was also a _fucking bitch_ , she provided a back-up plan: the alpha gene had a switch that could be flipped as long as the target had not yet reached their physical maturity (someplace around 21) or entered a mated relationship. The process was painful and traumatic, even back in the day when it was treated like an honor and given full pomp and ceremony. It involved multiple alphas, none of whom came from the omega-to-be's immediate family line, plus multiple hours – and a whole lot of fucking.

Or as the promega propaganda liked to sugarcoat it, "It takes a village."

Yeah, it took a _lot_ of semen to turn an alpha into a breeding bitch, and sure, maybe it destroyed some lives and futures in the process, but in times of low birthrates, omega-specific diseases and widespread tragedies (and fucking redneck asshole rapists), society as a whole would go on.

None of that gave Dean any comfort. Looking down at his battered, unconscious younger brother, whimpering and panting in his arms as the changes surged through him, he thought that Mother Nature and society could go die in a fire right the fuck now.

"We'll be at Bobby's in two hours," John said from the driver's seat. "Status report?"

"Fever spiked about an hour ago, but it's stabilized. I think his scent's started to change, but – I don't know, maybe I'm just imagining it? He's still out –" and would be until the changes had finished, the only merciful thing about the whole goddamn process "– the doctor estimated another 12 hours. Dad, what–"

"The only thing we can do, Dean," John interrupted. "We'll get him through this, whatever it takes. Christ, what a godforsaken cluster-fuck this week has been."

Their eyes met in the rear-view mirror, each reflecting worry and grief. It was good that Sam was asleep; with the car stinking of distressed alpha pheromones and his system unable to process any of them properly, he'd be even more of a nervous wreck.

As always, the oldest Winchester knew what his son was thinking. "Calm yourself down, Dean. Practice those breathing techniques Jim taught you. I'm going to need you thinking clear for all of us."

Dean closed his eyes, breathed in for four counts, held for seven, breathed out for eight. Repeat, repeat, repeat until the pheromones calm to neutral. In, out, in, out, breathe for Sammy.

John grunted, sensing the change. "Keep Sam's nose closer to your neck, Dean. He may not be awake, but his subconscious will recognize your scent and feel more secure."

Two days ago, Sam would have growled at him for getting anywhere close to his territorial space, and Dean would have growled right back. Now, even unconscious, it was the exact opposite – he snuggled into Dean like he used to back before he presented, and it made something inside Dean want to hold him forever.

His head fit perfectly under his chin, in fact. _Too_ perfectly –

"Dad," Dean asked, suddenly panicked, "I think Sam's – is Sam shrinking? It's like, there's no way we should both be fitting back here, not with the kid's gargantuan legs and all, but–"

John sighed. "You're not wrong, Dean. Omegas… they have a slighter stature than alphas. Sam's body is trying to compensate for that. He probably won't lose much, maybe just a few inches of height. It's the muscle mass that's going to be harder to rebuild, although I-" his voice caught, hitched a little with unvented emotion "-I guess that's not going to be as much of a problem, is it."

Dean tensed. "We're going to go back for those sons of bitches, right Dad? We're not going to let them get away with it, right?"

Sam let out a little whimper, and Dean realized he was unconsciously clenching his fingers too tightly. He willed himself to relax, folding his arms more loosely around his younger brother and hugging him in apology.

"Maybe not immediately, Dean, we've got to play it smart, got to take care of Sammy, but yeah… we won't let them get away with it." His voice broke. "Sammy-" He slammed his fist down futilely on the dashboard.

"Hey." Dean caught John's gaze in the rear-view mirror once again, willing him to see the love and respect there. "It wasn't your fault, Dad. You know it, and Sam knows it too. It was just the wrong fucking everything at the wrong fucking time."


	2. Rock and a Hard Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam holds his own against six redneck asshole alphas, until suddenly he doesn't.

**_10 hours earlier…_ **

Sam pressed his back against the wall, thinking for the second time that day that he needed to rethink his whole be-the-bigger-alpha-and-just-walk-it-off philosophy of nonviolence. It really wasn't working. He feinted left, then jabbed his right fist into the jaw of the redneck asshole trying to sneak up on him from the side. The blow knocked him backwards into his buddy, just now getting off the ground where Sam had planted him earlier.

Sensing an opening, he began to work his way methodically down the side of the building, keeping his back to the wall. Up to now he'd been fighting defensively, the way Dean had drilled into him, but he was tired, his shoulder hurt where that first jaggoff had punched him from behind, and he'd more than worked off all the adrenaline he'd been nursing since his fight with John earlier. The air was so full of pheromones that all the betas or omegas in the vicinity would be hiding, probably cowering – all for the better, they really weren't geared for combat and the scents of their distress would make all the alphas go into overdrive.

On the other hand, the alpha soup in the air couldn't help but attract _more_ to the area, which was going to cause a problem any minute now. He'd been able to hold his own pretty well against the six alphas that had challenged him the minute he walked into the store asking for directions; they were obviously used to bar brawls against drunken opponents, not trained warriors. Unfortunately, it was probably also why tossing two of them through the storefront window only fazed them for a minute; they weren't smart enough to know when to stay down.

Speaking of which… Sam ducked down as alpha #4 – Cletus, for god's sake could you _get_ more stereotypical redneck than that – leaped onto his back. The youngest Winchester pressed up from his heels and used the heavyset man's momentum to flip him over his head onto the ground in front of him, then kicked him hard in the nuts.

_He'd just wanted directions back to the goddamn motel._

Two minutes later, he'd made it to the corner of the building, and all six alphas were on the ground, groaning in pain or incapacitated. Sam wiped his hand across his face, clearing the blood dripping down his forehead from his eyes. As soon as he was sure none of his opponents were fit to come after him, he turned to get the hell out of the town. Even fighting with John was better than this bullshi-

Sam felt two sharp stings to his back, and then blinding pain ripped through him. He dropped instantly as the current paralyzed him, muscles freezing up as they twitched uncontrollably, rendering him incapacitated. His eyes were having trouble focusing, and his ears was ringing, sound coming in and out in waves.

"That's the one, Hank," he heard from someplace behind him. Once his eyes stopped twitching, he rolled his head back to see the owner of the general store pointing at him from a few meters away. Figures the beta would be too cowardly to get close to an unfamiliar alpha, even one whose current physical achievement was limited to not pissing himself after the taser's charge.

A huge, burly man in a sheriff's outfit – Hank? – walked over to Sam and bent down to look at him. "Nice fighting, kid. I'd almost let you get away with coming into town and attacking th' pack without provocation if one of those pathetic fighters you knocked to the ground didn't happen to be my sister's kid." The sheriff prodded him a little with his boot. "Kid ain't going to walk right for a week, which means my sis is going to be pissed at me. And that makes me angry, which makes it your problem. Which you is really going to wish it wasn't."

The sheriff stood up, handing the taser to the beta cringing behind him. "Flip it if he starts comin' around." Then he walked around the corner toward Sam's original attackers – "Holy shit, George, if you fucks aren't the lamest bunch of alphas this town has ever produced. Six of you against one skinny-ass kid at least two years younger'n any of you and half the weight and look at your sorry asses. Lee, your daddy would whup yer ass if that kid hadn't gone and already done it for him. And Jared, what the fu-"

Meanwhile, the tall storekeeper used his broom to poke Sam in the shoulder, as if he hadn't just had alpha-incapacitating levels of juice flowing through him a minute ago. Then, as if satisfied Sam wasn't about to grab him, he leaned down and sniffed his hair – if he'd been an alpha or omega, no doubt he'd have been full-out scenting him.

Come to think of it, the broom probably was a good idea, because if Sam could've gotten any of his muscles to obey, he would've decked the perv and kept on punching. Unfortunately, all he could do was blink hatefully as the shopkeeper brushed the hair out of his eyes.

"Hey Hank," the beta leered. "He's a real looker, ain't he?"

The sheriff came back up besides the creepy beta, placing a meaty paw on his shoulder. "He sure is."

The graying man leered again. "Almost too pretty to be an alpha, right? Those lips, that hair – like nature made herself a mistake."

Sam desperately wished he could understand what they were saying. Maybe every fourth word was coming through, but just from their tones and expressions, he knew he was in trouble.

The sheriff nodded exaggeratedly. "Y'know, I think I saw him twitch, Clem. That counts as resistin' arrest. Better give him another hit with the taser."

Sam's eyes rolled into the back of his head as his hearing whited out entirely.

Hank laughed as the boy's body jerked with the electricity. He didn't correct the grey-haired clerk when he left it on a little longer than necessary – the kid looked strong enough to take it... Strong enough to take a lot of things, in fact.

The sheriff smiled evilly. "Been a while since we had a proper bitchin', ain't it, Clem?"

The wiry shopkeep looked over and grinned. "Sure has."

Hank reached over and flipped the switch off, watching as the boy's muscles kept convulsing involuntarily. "Rog still has his grandpa's full set-up in his barn, doesn't he?"

Clem snickered. "Sure does – keeps it in pristine condition, too, from the bench down to the piercer. His pride and joy, it is."

"Well, then," the sheriff said, "can't let all that hard work go to waste, right?" He loomed over Sam, drew back his right hand, and slammed it into his face, knocking the young alpha out. He yelled over to his nephew. "Hey Phil, you and George take our friend here over to Roger's barn and string him up. Give him a hit of the horse tranqs Roger's got there to be on the safe side, then get Rog's bitch Missy to do a full clean on him. Jared, you and Lee go spread the word – I'm sure Tim and Reggie'll want in on this. I'll help Clem here so he can close up for the day."

"Just a fast clean, or the works?" Lee grinned evilly, wiping the blood off his jaw.

The sheriff matched his grin. "Well, I guess that depends on how embarrassed you are about the way he whupped yer asses, doesn't it?"

"Right," Lee said. "Works it is."

Hank turned back to Clem. "Let's get that window swept up. That kid's too clean not to have a daddy alpha come sniffin' around here sooner or later. Let's not give him any reason to look too closely – wouldn't want to have him complicate the fun."


	3. Closer Than You Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Dean go looking for Sam.

**_Nine hours earlier..._ **

When the Impala reached the town proper – what little of it there was in this godforsaken backwater town – only two men were present, the sheriff and some kind of shopkeeper, Dean guessed. The latter was a squirrely type, tall and lanky, and twitchy-nervous, constantly glancing back at his store. Someone had recently broken the store's window, Dean noted. It looked like the shopkeeper was sweeping it up.

Both of the men straightened up when John pulled the Impala up to a stop. After a glance between the two of them, the shopkeeper – a beta – dropped his broom and went back inside the store, while the sheriff strode over to the car. He was big, probably 300 pounds or so of alpha, and even though a quarter of that was fat, Dean thought he'd cause some trouble if it came to a fight.

But when Dean rolled down the window, the only thing that rolled in from his pheromones was amusement.

"Lemme guess," the sheriff said, leaning on the window. "You're the daddy and brother of that young buck that came storming through a while back."

John leaned across Dean to talk to the man. "Name's Sam – brown hair, six feet plus, looked like someone had pissed in his Cheerios?" Dean smiled involuntarily at that. The kid did have a tendency to look like he'd swallowed a lemon when he got upset.

The sheriff smirked. "That'd be the one." He looked away from the window for a moment to spit tobacco juice down on the ground. "He got in a dust up with a few of the locals tryin'a get directions to the closest highway. Took out four of 'em," he nods back at the window, "though I daresay they got their licks in too before I stepped in and made 'em put an end of it. Kid's probably halfway through the forest now – that's the fastest way to 73."

"Thank you, Sheriff… Bender," John smiled thinly, reading the name of his badge. Goddamn Sam and his temper – they needed to get on the road to the next hunt and they were quickly losing daylight.

The sheriff spit out another wad of tobacco. "Real chip on that kid's shoulder. If I hadn't been there to step in, something bad might have happened to him." His voice lowered as it grew cruder. "Next time he starts a fight, someone might decide to _put him in his place_."

Dean began to growl low in his throat, but John smacked him on the back of the head with a frown. "Thanks for the help, Sheriff. Does this road connect up to the 73?"

The big man nodded. "Sure does. You'll lose a coupla miles on him, but if you double back he can'ta gotten too far… 'less he was planning on hitchin' a ride."

Behind him, the beta stuck his head out the door. "Sheriff? Can we get that _incident report_ taken care of now?" Then his head ducked back inside.

Sheriff Bender stood up and tipped his hat towards them. "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me…"

Dean smiled wanly. "Yeah. Thanks." He looked back at the sheriff disappearing inside the store. "Let's go, Dad." They couldn't catch up to Sam and get out of this backasswards hellhole soon enough.


	4. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bitching ceremony begins, with a doped-up, unwilling Sam as the centerpiece.

"They's gone," Clem said, peering through a crack in the plywood he'd hastily propped up over the broken window.

"Good," Hank said. "Grab one of your kegs outta the back and let's get a move on. I got a feeling that pair o' alphas is gonna come back around here before too long."

* * *

The stocks used for a turning ceremony are a modified version of the omega stocks used for shaming in the public square – two sets of stocks, front and back, each padded thinly with leather to keep the omega uncomfortable but relatively uninjured. The front stock has a large oval cut into it which closes around the omega's shoulders, keeping him or her bent over, head at about waist level. The second stock has a circle cut into it to close around the O's waist right before the hips, with an option to secure the legs either to the ground or, more cruelly, doubled up thigh-to-calf and bound up to the stock itself. A pole spans the two stocks, extending out in front with a tall metal collar welded on it to keep the O's head in place. Roger's granddad built his stocks from scratch, and it had seen more than its share of use back in the day. Less now than it used to be, of course; not so many strangers traveling through since the highway diverted most of the traffic away from the town. _Fuckin' shame, that._

The party was already in full swing when Hank and Clem made it to the barn, about 15 alphas and a couple of betas hanging out and waiting for the show to start. Cletus had the grill fired up and roaring – dual purpose there, Hank thought evilly – and it looked like Reggie had brought some of his private stock to share, so there was eating and drinking and a goddamn festive attitude. When Clem placed the keg down, a cheer went up. Nothing like a bitching to bring the town together.

"Hank!" Roger hailed, a scrawny black-haired teenager trailing behind the balding, red-faced farmer as he walked up to the sheriff. The kid barely came up to Hank's elbow, looking around with wide eyes, obviously feeling out of place. "You remember Jacob, Tim's youngest, right? Just dropped his knot last year and he's never been to one'a these before. Thought you might like ta do the honors."

"That so?" Hank slapped his hand down across the kid's shoulders, nearly bowling him over as he did. "Looks like we'll be popping more than one cherry tonight, then. Don't be nervous, kid, everyone's gotta have a first time _sometime_."

Jacob smiled uncertainly.

"Your knot's safe here, kid, don't look so worried. Only bitches get bitched. C'mon, let's go take a look at our guest of honor." He guided the youth over to the stocks. "Your daddy ever teach you about how a bitch gets turned?"

The kid nodded, eyes wide as he stared at the boy strung up the stocks. "A little bit, sir."

"Good t' hear. So what do you know about preppin' em?"

The boy took a breath. "If you want your bitch to look a certain way after the ceremony, you gotta do it before the ceremony so it takes. Turning pauses the bitch's ability to heal quickly and resets their physical state after the turn as their new "normal", so any tats and brands and body rings and stuff never get healed away."

"That's right, Jake." Hank patted Jake encouragingly, the took a good look at the kid in the stocks and whistled. "Same thing for hair and– _jaysus_ , Roger, you sure let Missy go to town on that boy."

He'd always known that Roger's omega was a vicious little bitch, and the captive alpha was the living proof of that. The boy had been waxed cleaner than a newborn whelp, no body hair left anywhere below the neck. He was trussed up good and tight in the stocks, leather straps binding his thighs to his calves tight enough to leave red marks, ankles locked to the stocks so he was properly presented, ass entirely available and absolutely helpless. The sheriff ran a hand around the edges of the boy's hole – "lookit that, still nice and tight, won't be that way for long" – then gave his ass a farewell pat and moved over to the side.

"Tell me about the collar, Jake." The scrawny young alpha trailing Hank swallowed, eyes still trailing back towards Sam's flank.

"Collar's to remind him what he is, a'course, but it's mostly to protect all the alphas. Neck makes us crazy, an' it's too easy to get carried away and try to stake a claim, and then all the alphas would end up fighting each other."

Hank nodded. "That's right, kiddo, and who wants to get stuck with a bitch until you see how they turn out, right?" He gave the boy's shoulder another friendly shake. "Not that the claim would take, anyway, can't make any claim stick for the first two weeks."

They circled around to the front of the stocks, where Phil had just finished locking the kid's head into the collar. The K had obviously kicked in, because the boy's gaze was completely unfocused. Drugging him might have been overkill, maybe (Hank preferred them awake and squirming) but seeing as how he'd taken out six alphas on his own... better safe than sorry.

"You in there, Sam?" He grabbed the boy's long hair – seriously, kid was just _asking_ to be bitched with hair like that – and yanked it back, tying it in place with a strap so his face was forced to look straight ahead. "Saw your daddy a little while ago – sends his greetings. Says you'll make a great bitch, wishes he could be here to watch it happen." The kid moaned incoherently.

"Slap a ring gag on 'im, Phil," Hank directed. "I don't trust him not to bite."

In between the stocks, George was adding the finishing touches to Sam's hands, the swelling from his black eye still brutal in the light. It'd probably be gone by morning, but it had to hurt like a motherfucker right now, which was undoubtedly why he was taking such delight in immobilizing the boy's arms. He'd bound them good and tight, elbow to elbow, in the reverse prayer position, and was tying the whole shebang to the pole. That'd been one of Roger's granddad's personal improvements; said putting the hands through holes in the front stocks gave the omega too much leverage to struggle. Binding up the hands instead got the arms out of the way entirely, giving better access to the chest by making the omega arch forward. It was also painful as hell, what the old man had called "added value" with a wink and a nod.

Roger's granddad might have been a sadistic son of a bitch, but he was one _creative_ motherfucker.

The sheriff slapped Sam's ass, making the semi-conscious boy whimper. "You clean him out good, Missy?"

The mousy little omega looked up from where she was kneeling underneath the stocks with her piercing gun and nodded enthusiastically. "Three times, Sheriff Bender, six quarts total."

Across the way, Roger raised a red plastic cup in a toast, and added, "Cleaned out the front, too. Boy's got nothing left inside except what we're going to put in. Dick might be a little raw from the catheter but heck, not like he's gonna be using it much from here on out, right?" The sheriff joined in on the laughter that rang through the room.

Hank turned back to Jake, who was still staring at the kid in the stocks. "Got a question? Speak up, kid, you're an alpha, remember?"

The young boy swallowed nervously. "What's with all the _piercings_? Do they help the transition, too?"

The sheriff tousled Jake's hair. "Nah, that's just tradition, part of the ceremony. Alphas don't wear jewelry, so the rings are there to constantly remind the omega of their place. The silver keeps the body from rejecting the piercing until the turning takes. Stings something fierce, they say, but hey, it's not like we're the ones feeling it, right? And their body heals right up around the rings when they turn – if you want 'em out, you practically have to cut 'em off, and even when you do, the holes don't heal up."

Jacob cocked his head. "I never saw a bitch with that many piercings before." He pointed at where Missy was still busy underneath Sam.

Hank squatted down so he could see what the kid was pointing at and whistled. "Me neither, Jake. But that's just Missy having a little bit of fun."

The omega grinned, brushing her scraggly hair out of her eyes. "Lee said give 'm the works," she muttered viciously.

_"The works"_ was one way of putting it. She'd pierced both of Sam's ears once, then ran three more rings through the top lobe of his left ear. In addition, she'd given him a prince albert, then worked her way down the underside of his dick, making a nice ladder of nine barbells down the frenum all the way from the crown of his dick to his balls.

Hank's cock ached sympathetically just looking at it. "Wrap it up, Missy. We've got to get a move on."

Missy looked up, biting her lip in a pout as she fiddled around behind the kid's balls. "Aw, I didn't get to his nipples yet." She grabbed a silver ring out of her case and reached up, inserting it in the skin behind the kid's sack.

"Missy-" he growled. She immediately bowed her head submissively and scooted backwards out from under the stocks and back over to Roger, who absently patted her head.

"Nearly there boys!" Hank yelled. Another cheer went up throughout the barn. "Good work, Phil, George. Go grab yerselves a beer and a burger, you did great. Just one more bit of prep and then it's show time. This way, Jake."

The two walked back to Sam's feet. "Jake, since this is your first bitching, I'm going to give you the privilege of milking the bitch. You know why we do that, right? Cleans out the system, makes the turning faster?"

Jake nodded, eyes wide, pheromone clouds of excitement practically rolling off him. "That's right."

Hank smiled evilly. "Sure is. So I want you to take this–" he handed him a long, thing plastic rod with a bend at one end "–and just jam it up in there and wiggle it around until you hit his prostate."

The teen licked his lips nervously. "How will I know when I reach it?"

The sheriff leaned back, howling with laughter. "Oh, you'll know, trust me. Now, here, let's get you started. Just take the rod and turn it on" – Jake flipped the switch and it started humming – "and then just kinda run it around the outside of his hole and yep, there y'are, in y'go, just keep feeding it in and..."

The boy in the stocks suddenly shuddered, hips trying to roll forward.

"Well, well, well," Hank murmured, watching Jake twist the rod inside Sam. "Look at the way his ass just sucks that in. I'm telling you, this kid was born to be a bitch. Why, we're practically doing him a favor here."

An incoherent moan wrenched its way out of Sam's throat. A moment later, clear liquid began to seep out of his pierced cock.

"I got it!" Jake smiled determinedly, moving the rod in a tiny circle.

"That's my boy!" Tim yelled from the grill. "Milk that bitch!"

Jake's smile grew brighter as the barn filled with cheers.

* * *

Sam couldn't think, couldn't focus. There was something wrong, something terribly wrong. Everything hurt – his arms, his legs, why wouldn't they respond? His brain, it was like thinking through mud. He was… was he, he was, he was _drooling_ , and his jaw wouldn't close, his jaw wouldn't close and his arms wouldn't move and he couldn't _think why couldn't he think–_

He'd felt something like this once, when a werewolf had ripped him up good on a hunt and the wounds had gotten infected, and they were too far out in the woods to get to a hospital for two days. His Dad had given him some medical grade painkillers, the kind they saved for really bad shit, and it had felt like his head was just floating away. Dean told him later he'd spent half the day just giggling at sunbeams, and he and Dad had to keep a hand on him at all times or he would have wandered off entirely.

This was like that… so was he wounded? There'd been… there'd been fighting, he remembered that, remembered fighting with John, remembered walking off to cool down, getting turned around… trying to get directions at the store… and then getting jumped by a group of redneck alphas claiming he'd somehow violated their territory even though any idiot knew towns were always neutral ground.

Was he on painkillers again? Had he gotten hurt? He remembered... no, he'd _won_ the fight, fuck, why wouldn't his arms move, why were they all twisted up, what had... his feet... was he, was he _naked_?!

Pleasure coursed through him, inexplicable, shameful pleasure rushing through his loins. There was something inside him, he realized with a panic, something moving and rubbing and– He tried to twist around, to see what was happening, but he couldn't move. No matter which way he struggled, he couldn't get free, something had a hold on his hair, and the thing inside him, the waves of pleasure, he didn't want it, tried to say as much but nothing came out, _why couldn't he speak?_

The rest of the fight came crowding back in, the sheriff looming over him, then darkness, no, wait, his eyes were open the sheriff was _here_ and his mouth, Sam's mouth wouldn't shut, he was – some kind of barn, why wouldn't his eyes focus? He could hear sounds, people talking, but it was like he was far away and none of the sounds made words. There was a smell of, smell of smoke, and beer, and other alphas, he could smell _them_ now, arousal and cruelty and fear rolling over him no wait…

The pleasure kept rolling through him, leaking out of him. He could feel his knot forming _why the hell was his knot forming?_ He couldn't stop it. He didn't want it _didn't want it couldn't stop it didn't want stop no_ –

...The fear he smelled was his own.

* * *

Dean drummed his fingers against his thigh, keeping his eyes peeled out the window for any sign of his errant alpha brother. "Why are we going on to the next town instead of doubling back to the motel, Dad? Sammy's probably found his own way back by now."

"Half an hour isn't going to kill us at this point, Dean. Our schedule's already fucked for the day." John pursed his lips, thinking of the envelope he'd found in Sam's duffel bag that afternoon. He didn't think the boy had just lit out for California, not leaving _everything_ behind – especially the letter – but there was a Greyhound station in town, and Sam had been furious when he left. It was a possibility. He had to be _sure_.

But Dean didn't need to know about any of that. John was going to find Sam, bring him back, and keep his family together. "Call it father's intuition, Dean. Raise a kid for eighteen years, you get a gut feeling about these kinds of things."

Dean had practically raised Sammy for 17 and a half of those years, and _his_ gut wasn't telling him any such thing. _Dean's_ gut was saying something was wrong, had been slowly going wrong for months now as his brother and his father tiptoed around each other, waiting for the next time tempers would flare into snarls and yelling and posturing. His gut was telling him time was running out. He just didn't know for _what_.

A glance at John's face told him that his father wasn't going to listen to anyone's gut except his own, so Dean sat back and tried not to worry. Sam undoubtedly would have cooled off by now, headed back home so that he and their father could grumble and not-apologize at each other. And Sammy was tough. Just last year, he'd taken out a werewolf all on his own, not to mention that rawhead three months ago. Wherever he'd disappeared to, he'd be okay until they caught up with him.

He hoped.

* * *

"Hey Hank?" Jake steadied himself with one hand against the quivering omega-to-be's hip, his other hand still moving the rod in and out. "I think he's dry now."

The sheriff walked up a minute later, shoving the last part of a burger into his mouth and sucking the juices off his fingers. "Good work, kid. Go ahead and pull that out now and get yerself something to eat. Gotta keep your strength up for the main event, y'hear?" The boy handed the rod back to Hank, blushing furiously, then turned to leave.

"And only one beer, Jake!" Hank yelled after him. "Don't want to give our boy here a soggy knot when it's your turn!" He smiled as Tim handed the boy a burger and tousled his hair amongst good-natured ribbing from Cletus and Phil.

Before the sheriff could turn around and yell for her, Missy was already there, pressing the widow's clamp into his hand with a wicked grin. He smiled down at her, but didn't take it. "My, what a _good_ girl you are, Missy. Tell you what, you hand me that bowl full of the cum Jake milked out of him, and then you can go on ahead and put it on 'im. I know you like doing that."

The omega dropped to her knees immediately, holding up the bowl to Hank, then scurried underneath Sam, holding her ragged dress out of the way with one hand as she moved. Biting her lip in concentration, she twisted the clamp's metal cylinder open and fitted it swiftly around the base of Sam's cock, then twisted it until it clicked closed again. Next she pulled out three leather straps and wrapped them tightly around his balls and the base of his cock, threading them through the ring she'd inserted in his perineum. She glanced over to the sidelines at Lee, who nodded back enthusiastically over his beer, and pulled the straps even tighter.

With the clamp was in place, Sam wouldn't be able to get hard, let alone develop a knot. He'd make a prettier omega with it on – sometimes turned omegas retained their knots, but it wasn't exactly aesthetically pleasing. Clamping made that a lot less likely. If Sam was _exceptionally_ unlucky, his new alpha might never let him take the clamp off.

Impishly, Missy yanked on the ring, giggling at Sam's confused yelp, then returned to Roger's feet.

Hank took the bowl and moved into position behind Sam, rubbing one thumb over the captive alpha's pink, puckered hole. "Good thing Jake was so thorough when he milked you, boy. Until your slick starts flowing, this is gonna be the only lubrication you get." He dipped two fingers through the viscous fluids and jammed them into Sam unceremoniously, rotating the digits roughly, then pulling them out to repeat the process, ignoring the boy's futile attempts to twist away. His hole was already a little loose from Jake's ministrations, but nowhere as soft and yielding as an omega's would be.

Hank balanced the bowl on top of the stock and raised his hands. "Gentlemen! Your attention, please!" Once the barn quieted, he lowered his hands and continued. "This alpha has been found guilty of wilding, of attacking Hibbing citizens without provocation, and of being a general menace to a polite and civilized society. By the power invested in me as Hibbing's Sheriff – and its part-time judge as well – I sentence him to be turned, to be carried out _right the fuck now_! Betas, feel free to use his mouth, alphas, fuck whichever end you want, but remember to save your knots for his ass."

The sheriff unzipped his pants, pulling out his dick and positioning himself behind Sam as the other alphas' shouts filled the barn. Even gagged, the boy howled as Hank shoved himself brutally inside, "Let's get this party started!"


	5. Harrowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harrow [har-oh], verb:  
> 1\. to ravish; violate; despoil.  
> 2\. to descend into hell to free the righteous held captive.

**_Eight hours earlier..._ **

 Sam was in Hell. He didn't know how he'd gotten there, or why, but it was the only explanation. He was in Hell, and he was being tortured by demons.

_"Tortured,"_ he thought _…don't be a coward. Say the word. Admit it to yourself._

Raped. He was being _raped_. Oh god.

Something unbearably huge was impaling him again and again from behind, mercilessly invading his innermost core. He tried to crawl away from it, but his limbs were trapped. He tried to yell, but his mouth wouldn't work right, couldn't even bite down. He could shift his hips a little, but all it seemed to do was make the demon drive into him even harder. And even if he could have moved, his muscles felt all weird and rubbery, like they were a mile away and he was trying to control them through a fog made of heavy wool.

There were creatures all around him, gibbering and yowling. They kept morphing in and out of focus; sometimes they looked human, but then their faces would melt and morph into horrible, quasi-demonic visages. The language they spoke made no sense, but their inherent maliciousness and cruelty carried through as they poked and prodded at him, laughing.

The light darkened, and suddenly there was a demon in front of him, its clawed hands scraping down his cheek and gripping his chin brutally. The thing smelled of sawdust and manure, sweat and poor hygiene. It forced its way into his mouth, his throat burning as his air supply was cut off. When his airway was briefly restored, he gagged through his tears, trying to swallow as much down as possible before his throat was filled again.

The thing in front of him cackled and began to fuck his face furiously in a horrid counterpoint to the one violating him from behind. Sam felt absurdly grateful for the numbness that still pervaded his body; it kept him from clenching up, traitorously kept him from trying to keep the demons out, but without it he would already have been wracked with immense pain. Or maybe he already was and just couldn't tell? He wanted to throw up, but even his throat muscles seemed sluggish and unresponsive.

The cock in his mouth pulled back, and he gasped for air, lightheaded from the little he'd been able to take in on the last breath. _Maybe next time_ , he thought, _maybe if he was lucky…maybe it wouldn't pull back next time and he could just choke to death and be free._

Sam immediately felt ashamed at the idea – the demons _wanted_ him to break. He couldn't let them win. He was a goddamn Winchester. If John had taught him _anything_ , it was that when you were going through hell, you fucking kept right on going.

_Dad_ , he thought helplessly, _Dean – where are you?_

A small part of his brain was telling him this wasn't Hell. _Drugged_ , he'd been drugged. If he could only think just a little more clearly, could remember what had happened, what was actually going on – he needed to get free –

Behind him, he felt an expanding pressure as the demon violating him grew inexplicably larger. It rammed its cock into him further still… and then its knot locked into place. It wouldn't last, not like it would with an omega where the muscles would clamp down and –

_It was knotting him._

Panic set in, primal alpha panic, and he screamed around the cock ramming into his mouth as he thrashed against his bonds, trying fruitlessly to get free. The knot stayed lodged where it was, but white-hot agony rippled through his shoulder as he flexed uncontrollably against his bonds and something gave with a _pop_.

The demon in front of him shoved in a final time, swiveling his hips forward in little jerking motions, and liquid hit the back of Sam's throat. His screams sputtered and choked as he tried to cough it up.

Then the thing pulled out, wiped its dick across his lips, and leaned in low to look Sam in the eyes. It was wearing the face of that creepy shopkeeper he'd met earlier. He tried to pull away, but the movement only sent another jolt of pain shooting through his chest.

The shopkeeper patted his head. "Good bitch."

* * *

Dean flipped his cell phone closed and looked worriedly at John. "Something stinks here, Dad. The hotel manager still hasn't seen Sam, and he's not answering his phone."

John nodded. He felt it too, a quickly growing unease. This no longer felt like a recalcitrant teenage snit. Something was _wrong_.

He turning the Impala back around toward Hibbing. "Let's go talk to that shopkeep again."

* * *

By the time Steve noticed that Sam's shoulder was dislocated, Jared, Cletus and Todd had all already had their knots in him, and Reggie had just shoved himself in to start round five. Todd had mentioned that the guy was wiggling around on the pole a little more than expected, but that wasn't all that unlikely, what with having had four alphas pounding into him like it was some kind of competition. The straps were only leather, after all; something was going to give.

But Steve was a considerate beta, not like some of the assholes here, and he'd brought some water for the boy. Everyone knew turning bitch took a lot of out of the body, especially in terms of hydration, and the kid was full-out panting. Well, okay, technically it was beer and not water, since it wasn't like anyone _had_ any water there to drink, but he was pretty sure the kid would appreciate it regardless.

He popped the tab and held the can up to the boy's mouth. "Drink up, kid, ya got a long evening ahead." He leaned his other hand against the boy's shoulder for leverage, but jumped back when it shifted fluidly, cursing as the beer sloshed out on the floor. The kid had gone from panting to trying to scream the minute he'd applied pressure.

"Hey, Earle, c'mere a minute," Steve yelled. "Something's wrong with the kid. Shoulder's all fucked up or something. Made me waste my booze!"

The doctor peeled himself off the wall and headed over. "Probably just popped it outta alignment. Happens all the time." He clucked his tongue sympathetically. "Still, wouldn't want him to turn with a gimp arm. Might stay that way. Stand aside, I'll shove it back in. Won't take but a few minutes and then you can get back to his mouth."

"Do whatever you want, Earle," Reggie yelled from behind Sam, still fucking into him, "but I gotta warn ya, I ain't stopping for nothing!"

* * *

Hibbings was a ghost town when the Impala rolled back through. John glanced over at Dean as they pulled up in front of the general store. "A bit early to be closed, don't you think?"

Dean scanned the area. "Diner's shut, too." When they'd first come by, there had at least been some betas walking around with their kids. Now the streets were deserted. He thought he'd seen a few curtains twitch as they drove in, but it might have just been his imagination. "Where _is_ everyone?"

"That's what I'm wondering." John moved quietly over to the store's front door, pulling on his leather gloves as he looked at the broken glass. Some of the top edges were coated with a dry red-brown film – _blood_.

Behind him, Dean tracked John's gaze and frowned. "Dry, but fresh." He breathed in the faint pheromones that clung to the glass, then relaxed slightly, shaking his head. "Not Sammy." Dean had always had the best nose in the family, especially when it came to his father or brother. It was one of the things that had allowed him to mediate so well between them, and he'd often wondered if half the fights they'd had could have been avoided entirely if either of them could scent the undercurrents of _worry/love/protection_ that they both buried underneath their alpha stubbornness and need for control.

They walked around the building until they found the rear door. John waited until Dean was blocking him from any passerby's view, then leaned down and jimmied open the lock. "I'll look inside. You keep trying to reach your brother, and check out the surrounding area. The sheriff said Sam had a throw-down with a few of the locals. If you can figure out where it happened, we might be able to track him."

Dean nodded and moved cautiously around the corner and out of sight.

John looked around to see if anyone was watching, then slipped through the doorway, letting the door click shut behind him. He glanced around the room, looking for cameras. Finding none, he moved further in.

The store was cool and dark inside, and smelled of dust and stale beer. There was a big pile of broken glass swept up near the front, and minor breaks in the floorboards nearby. After examining it, John could tell the window had been broken from the outside by something large crashing through it – given the sheriff's story, most likely a person. So if it wasn't Sam's blood, it had to have come from one of his attackers.

As John sorted through the shards for any other clues, a muted ringing snapped his attention to the side of the store, coming through the office door directly behind the cash register.

_He knew that ringtone._

Picking the lock on the office took long enough for the phone to stop ringing by the time John was inside. But he had an easy enough way to test his fears. With growing dread, he dug out his own phone and dialed Sam's number.

The ringing started up again.

John's stomach dropped. Sam's phone, wallet and jacket were stashed inside the bottom right drawer of the desk, along with the silver boot knife and pocket knife that Sam always carried. Both blades were clean, but there were splotches of blood on the jacket, and two holes in the middle of the back that puzzled John. The holes were too small and clean to be bullets – no gunpowder residue. He was almost positive they hadn't been there this morning.

He pulled his phone back out and dialed Dean.

* * *

Reggie pulled his knot free of Sam's swollen, reddened hole. "Next!" Zipping up his pants, he sauntered back toward the grill, currently manned by Pa Bender. The old man had a couple of dogs and three burgers cooking, and a long metal rod ominously jammed between them into the coals. Nasty business, that, but the man clearly enjoyed his work. "Burger me, big poppa!"

Taking a big bite out of his hamburger, Reggie smiled as he walked over to Steve and Tim, both sitting and chilling over to one side. "You're up, Tim!"

The middle-aged alpha grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "Good thing I don't mind your sloppy seconds." He pushed himself up out of his chair and swaggered off toward the stocks. "Time to go show you how it's done!"

Reggie settled down into the chair Tim had abandoned and took another huge bite out of his burger. "That kid's got a _great_ ass. Fuckin' _made_ to get fucked. Hope we can get a turn or two more once he starts slicking up properly." He looked over at his beta friend, licking the last of the ketchup off his fingers. "How was his mouth? Worth having a go?"

Steve looked back at the dark-skinned alpha thoughtfully. "Sure wasn't bad, I'll tell ya – well, once Earle got that kid to stop screaming, anyway. But I was wondering – that bitch look at all… _familiar_ … to you?"

"You're asking the wrong guy, Steve," the alpha smirked, grabbing his crotch suggestively. "I was at the business end – and from that angle, all assholes look alike!" He glanced over toward the stocks, where Tim's youngest was watching his father ram into the soon-to-be-omega. "Hey, Jake, tap me a cold one from the keg, alright?" He reached into one of his vest's pockets and pulled out a pipe. "What's got you all riled up?"

The beta shrugged, striking a match and holding it out toward Reggie's pipe to light it. "Probably nothing, but do me a favor, once Ham's done at the front, go look at the kid's face, okay? I'd ask Tim, but he's going to be… tied up for a while."

Reggie sucked on his pipe, then blew out a perfect smoke ring as he accepted the cup from Jake, who immediately scurried back over to his father. Tim was now pounding into the stocks at full force and giving a verbal commentary to Jake as he went, tips for when the boy took his spot afterwards.

"Man, not sure I'd want my dad talking me through my first knot." The light reflected off of Reggie's bald dome as he shook his head, laughing.

Steve shuddered, temporarily distracted from whatever was worrying him. " _Jesus_ , me neither."

"You'd have to _have_ a knot first, fucker," Reggie snorted. "Ten bucks says Jake blows in under two minutes."

Steve raised his beer in a toast. "You're on."

* * *

Dean answered on the second ring. "Hey, Dad, how many guys did the sheriff say Sammy went up against?"

John thought for a second. "Four, I think." He let himself out the back door, Sam's jacket stashed under his arm. "Why, got proof he was lying?"

"Not sure yet. I found some blood in the alley two doors down, but nothing I could identify. I did find a tooth, though, and that definitely didn't come from Sam — it's all stained and yellow. Can't tell anything more, though, it's been a couple of hours and the scent's all but gone. You have any luck?"

"Wish I didn't. The shopkeep had Sam's phone, wallet and jacket stashed in his desk," John said grimly.

_"Fuck!"_ Dean growled. "I'll keep looking."

* * *

_**Six hours earlier...** _

Reggie was on his fifth beer – making up for lost time – when Hammond finally pulled up his pants and walked away from the front of the omega stocks. It wasn't like he'd had the world's best stamina, taking that long; more like he hadn't been able to get more'n half-erect until Tim was gone and Jake had taken his place.

"It's not my fault," he'd said. " _You_ try getting off looking at Tim's goddamn ugly mug."

"Just more proof you're no alpha!" Zeb Walker had yelled back from the doorway, where he and his brother Moses were smoking. He made an obscene gesture, pistoning his hips back and forth. "Alphas can get off to _anything_!"

Steve shoved a new beer in Reggie's hand. "Now's your chance. Go give him a drink and take a good look at him. Act casual."

Reggie grumbled but wavered to his feet. "You gonna tell me what the fuck this is all about afterwards?"

Steve nodded anxiously. "Probably nothing. Just… go take a look."

The tall black man moseyed over towards the stocks, speeding up when he saw Phil Bender headed that way as well. "Hold on up a minute, kid, let's get a little more hydration going there. He's going to start slicking up anytime now, don't want him to dry out."

Phil smirked. "I'll give him something to drink, all right – gonna knot his fucking throat until he chokes on it." The cruel grimace made his ugly mug look even worse. He wasn't going to be winning any beauty contests until his jaw and eye healed and weren't all swollen up and bruised purple. Shame about the missing tooth, Reggie thought; that gap was going to be a permanent reminder to Phil that he'd gotten his ass handed to him by a punk.

Reggie raised an eyebrow. "Don't you wanna save that knot for-"

"Naw," Phil interrupted. "There's no way'n hell he's not already started turning, they don't need me there. 'Sides, if I fuck his ass, he probably wouldn't even know it's me. This way I can look him in the eye and make sure that fucker knows I gave back twice as good as he gave me, and ain't nothing he can do but take it."

Reggie whistled. "Damn, that's cold-blooded." He leaned over to the boy in the stocks. "Drink up kid, sounds like you're gonna need it." It took a few moments to get the angle right, what with the kid's head collared in place with his hair tied back.

The boy sputtered a little before figuring out what was happening, then drank gratefully. Trying to act casual, Reggie lifted the boy's floppy bangs out of his face and leaned in, scanning his features, only to drop his beer in surprise a second later when the boy's eyes met his.

Phil laughed. "Goddamn, you are _wasted_ , Reggie. Go sit down before you fall over." He already had his pants around his knees and was palming his thickening dick. "Open wide, kid, it's time to play hide-the-salami."

Reggie left the cup where it was and backed away from the stocks, collapsing back in his chair with a groan.

"I'm right, ain't I?" Steve whispered.

Reggie nodded, sweat beading on his bald pate. "Fuck," he whispered back. "That's John Winchester's boy."

* * *

Sam was in Hell.

It was and it wasn't the same Hell as before. Still terrible. Just a different kind of torture.

The good part of this Hell was that whatever they'd drugged him with was wearing off. The hallucinations had mostly stopped, and his limbs no longer felt rubbery. He knew where he was and what was happening to him – _although he wasn't going to think too much about that right now no sir not if he wanted to stay sane_ – and he was doing his damnedest to memorize the faces, voices and scents of every last motherfucking one of them.

It was better than thinking about what was happening to his body. About the tears and snot running from his nose uncontrollably. About the way his throat burned. About the fluids running down his thighs and how some of it had to be blood and some of came from the _he'd lost count how many_ cocks that had been forced inside him, were _still_ being forced into him. About what some of those fluids might also be, and the way his own body no longer _smelled right_.

He didn't want to think about that last part at all.

And of course, that was the bad part of this Hell, too, that whatever they'd drugged him with was wearing off. The assault _(rape, call it rape, it's what it is, being raped, being turned oh god)_ no longer felt vague and distant, like it was happening to someone else and not him. He could hear their mocking words and laughter, taste the unwashed flesh of each foreskin against his tongue, feel the pain with each knot that tied in place.

But he wasn't going to let them beat him, because this Hell had one tiny promise of salvation. When the doctor had popped his shoulder back into position, he'd loosened the straps around Sam's arms. They were still twisted painfully behind his back, but he could move them slightly… and when he flexed and twisted his wrists and shoulders, the straps loosened incrementally more. So he tried to close his eyes and pretend he was successful at shutting out everything else.

Sooner or later, they'd take him down from the stocks. And then he'd go down fighting.

* * *

"Dean!" John grabbed his son's shoulder. "Did you see that?"

"No… what?" He looked quietly around.

"There was a hand in the window of that house over there, waving to us through the curtain… and the front door's ajar now. It was closed before."

Dean snapped to attention. "Trap?"

John shrugged slightly, angling his body so his face was turned away from the windows. "I don't know, but it's the only lead we've got. I'll go in, you circle behind and find a second way in."

Dean nodded and moved off.

John took a deep breath and walked cautiously up to the door, keeping his right hand low and ready to go for the gun at his back at the first sign of trouble. He pushed the door open with his left hand and glanced inside.

The interior of the house was dim, but he could see a figure standing in the shadows of the hallway. "Inside," it whispered in a low voice. " _Quickly_ , before anyone sees you." It – he – moved back further into the shadows with a strange metallic jangle and scrape.

_Chains_.

John stepped inside and shut the door. The smell of scared omega flooded his nostrils, and as his eyes adjusted, he could make out a short young man standing barefoot in the hallway, clad only in a white wifebeater and a pair of fraying jeans. The clanking noise reoccurred when he moved, and John realized it was coming from a chain attached to a shackle on the omega's ankle.

The hunter took another step forward, and the omega immediately dropped to his knees in submission. Behind him, John could see Dean at the end of the hallway, stealthily working his way forward.

"You must be the boy's father," the omega said. "I'm so very sorry."

* * *

As soon as Steve and Reggie explained the situation to Tim, the three began extricating themselves. Explaining to Hank or the rest of the boys how they knew the Winchesters or why this posed a problem would raise more questions than it answered; better to just clear the scene before John inevitably showed up. He was a ferocious hunter and a good tracker, and more than a little unbalanced in the opinions of most of his peers. He only lived for three things these days: raising his boys, killing monsters, and seeking revenge for the death of his long-dead beta wife. And they had just fucked, figuratively and literally, with one of those three things.

They felt a little guilty leaving the others to face John's wrath, but it would be a lot easier to get overlooked in the confusion if they left him a lot of targets. And besides, they had their _own_ boys' futures to think about.

Fortunately, shortly after Doc Earle got himself balls-deep in the Winchester bitch, Lee Bender and George Sims got in a dust-up over which one of 'em got to knot his mouth, and that seemed like a good time to get away. Tim gathered up the boys, albeit not without a bit of a fight – Todd had been hoping for a second go at Sam's ass, which was probably producing slick by now, and Jake really wanted a chance at his mouth, but Tim set them straight. Meanwhile Steve faked a text to Reggie so he could start the rounds of, _oh no, emergency at work, overtime for us if we go and it looks like the rest'a you knotheads have this all well in hand, but hey, great bitching, let's do it again sometime._

Hank staggered over to Reggie and Steve, spilling his beer on the hay-strewn floor. "Don't tell me you're leavin' already – we ain't branded the O yet. It's tradition! You can't fuck with tradition!"

Reggie smiled thinly. "Sorry, man, work calls. We can't all of us spend alla time fuckin', I got pups to support!"

"Uh, yeah," Steve said. "Real shame about it, though. Been great. Real good for town morale, you know, but we, ah, better get going now, you know."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Don't act all torn up. We all know that just means more turns for the rest of you." A smattering of cheers confirmed that truth.

The sheriff tossed one of his meaty paws over Steve's shoulders, sloshing beer down the beta's sleeve from the cup he was still holding. "Well, keep yer pants on just a few more minutes, _at least_ let me get the commemorative photo for the station wall – hey, Mo, get your tripod out. Tim, Reggie and Steve have to jet, so we need to take the picture now."

"What the fuck, Hank?" Earle yelled, slapping his hand across the O's ass for emphasis. "I'm still tied in the bitch. I don't want any picture with my pants down around my ankles. 'Tain't dignified."

"Oh, fer crissakes," Hank grumbled as he steered Reggie and Steve back to the stocks. "Roger, have your bitch go pull up Earle's pants and hold 'em there. We'll just stick someone – Jake, you're short, you go stand in front of the good doctor here like so, and there, Bob's your uncle, your goddamn _dignity_ is intact."

"You gotta live a little, Earle," George said from the front – he'd won the fight with Lee earlier and had knotted Sam's mouth good, although he'd probably be able to pull out anytime now. The boy had figured out how to breathe through his mouth, but he hadn't yet figured out how not to choke. His face was coated with tears, drool, snot and some alpha's cum – probably Roger's, that asshole never had any manners on how to behave at a civilized bitching – and frankly, George wasn't all that happy to have it too close to his dick. "I'd be proud to have photographic evidence to show my kids that their Dad had the goods to do the job."

Hank arranged the rest of the group around the stocks while George re-situated himself. Phil grumbled about having his injuries preserved for all time, but he sucked it up okay in the end. Once Moses had the timer set, they all held their position and grinned as the flash went off.

When he saw the photo later, the sheriff would notice that none of the early departures looked particularly happy to still be there.

* * *

The omega knelt in the hallway like he was trying to collapse in on himself. His blonde hair was cut short and ragged, and there were circles under his eyes and a yellowing bruise on one cheek. A jagged scar ran across his chin and up one cheek. One of his hands was cupping his elbow; the other played with the chain coming from his metal ankle cuff.

John squatted down, bringing himself back into the omega's line of sight. "John Winchester, son, wish I could say I was pleased to meet you. What's your name?"

The blonde youth almost met his eyes, but at the last second his glance skittered away back to his feet. "They call me Allie, sir."

"Allie, huh?" Dean closed the distance to them, positioning himself where he could see through the crack in the curtains John had noticed earlier.

"It used to be Alvin, _before_." The omega's voice was flat and emotionless.

John reached out a hand to the omega's shoulder. He was aiming for comforting, but was pretty sure his frustration and anger was seeping through. "Which do you prefer?"

"Doesn't really matter now, does it, sir?" Bitterness and despondency rolled off of him. "I'm Allie now. Not like I get a say, anyway."

Dean coughed. "What were you saying just now about Sammy?"

"That kid who was here earlier, that's Sammy? You ought to be real proud of him, sir. He fought off six of this town's worst bullies… twice. Second time they came at him from behind, and he still wiped that alley with 'em. It wasn't his fault what all happened after that."

Dean and John spoke simultaneously.

"Wait, _six_ -?"

"What do you mean? What happened?"

The omega looked down, fiddling with the links of chain. The chain ran off down the hall and out of sight into another room. He looked back up at John with a wry smile. "Just long enough to hang myself, huh? I'll get whipped for this later, but it'll be worth it. Your son was just defending himself. Bender's pack is nothing but inbred assholes and they had it coming. But the sheriff snuck up from behind and shocked him down, then knocked him out."

"What a goddamn cowardly motherfucking asshole!" Dean swore. "Where is he now? They said he wasn't in jail, were they lying? Did they arrest him?"

The omega slumped down even further. "I'm so sorry."

Dean grabbed Allie and spun him around to face him, shaking his shoulders. "Why the fuck are _you_ sorry? What did they do to him? Where the _fuck_ are they keeping him?" The O blanched and began trembling, his instinctual omega submissiveness kicking into overdrive at the alpha's snarl. He looked a hair's breadth away from pissing himself.

John shot a warning glance at Dean. "Let the man speak, son."

"I'm _sorry_ ," Allie repeated again brokenly. "They- they didn't arrest him. Sheriff never does. He likes 'em–" he choked a little. "He likes them young."

John's head swam for a minute, knowing what was coming and realizing he was not, would never be, ready to hear it. It was one of a parent's worst nightmares. His blood ran cold. _"Where did they take him, Allie? What are they doing to him?"_

"…They took him to be _bitched_." The omega flinched as Dean stood up suddenly and walked away swiftly, helpless rage and sorrow rolling off of him.

"Keep it together, Dean," John ordered. "I need you here with me, here and now. Everything else comes later." He turned his attention back to Allie. "Can you take us to him? If we break the chain, will you take me to my son?"

The omega shook his head, lifting his chain. "You don't want me with you even if I could. You’re his pack, you've got rights. But taking me, that'd be property theft. They could take your boy away for good."

John swore. "Can you at least tell me where they took him, how to get there?"

Allie looked up, his tired blue eyes meeting John's eyes for the first time. "I've rarely been out of this house in the three years since they turned me, but I will never forget that godforsaken place. Do you have a map?"

* * *

_**Four hours earlier...** _

The chance Sam was waiting for came all piecemeal, but it came.

It started when they took the gag off so they'd have a clear shot of his face for the photo and never bothered to put it back on. It wasn't hard to fake being too exhausted to care when Moses Sims stepped up to use his mouth without the gag. The assault had gone on so long, Sam's ability to cope had moved far past traumatized to utterly numb.

As his brain dissociated itself from everything his body was enduring, the coldly calculating, logical part of Sam's mind took over, shifting the end goal from _living through this_ to _taking as many of the bastards with him as possible_. It made it easier to bide his time and ignore what was happening.

His head's freedom came next, when Zeb moved up and discovered that Sam's mouth was about five inches too high for him to comfortably fuck. It was clear to everyone in the barn that the bitch had learned his place by then, so they unhooked his head and hair from the pole so it could hang down low enough for the short alpha to reach – "Fuck _all_ of y'all, I ain't using no stool."

If Sam hadn't gotten the straps around his wrists considerably loose by then, the change might have popped his shoulder back out of alignment. As it was, the stocks kept him from having to place his entire body weight on his arms, and the pain gave him something to focus on besides the frankly rank smell of a man who needed to wash far more frequently than Zeb obviously did.

His legs were a problem. Sam couldn't really feel them anymore, which was a bad sign. He'd be all but helpless for a while when they were finally unlocked. And in fact, the circulation in them was so bad that he didn't even notice they'd been unlocked until they were being lowered and both wooden stocks were being opened.

Lee grabbed Sam's jaw and snapped his fingers to get Sam's attention. "Hey, bitch-" _a slap knocked his face to one side_ "-ya don't-" _another slap in the other direction_ "-want t' miss th' big finale-" _a third slap and now Sam was looking at him_ "-do ya?"

Lee and his brother Jared hauled Sam into a semi-upright position. His hands were free of the pole but still bound, but when he looked down he could see that his legs were free. Shaky and numb, but free.

Unfortunately, that was the _only_ part of him that was numb. He flailed forward uncontrollably as a plastic tube was unceremoniously rammed inside of him. The Bender brothers held tight to his shoulders and elbows as cold water rushed into him, then ran out humiliatingly between his legs. Sam had thought he was far past any embarrassment, but his cheeks burned as he publicly voided the contents of his bowels – even if the only things inside him _to_ void were water and alpha spunk.

Once the water was gone, fingers roughly pressed up inside him, rubbing around until he yelped when they found his painfully overstimulated prostate. There was no way he was going to get hard again, not after everything, but a moment later he felt liquid dripping from his ass – not water this time.

The hand pulled out a minute later, followed by a loud sniff from its owner. "Yeah, that's the stuff," Pa Bender exclaimed from where he stood behind him. "Good work everyone! We got here the start of one grade-A bitch!"

Sam tried not to scream when the eldest Bender shoved his way inside of him, seating himself fully in one push. It wasn't the pain from being fucked violently yet _again_ , feeling a growing knot stretching him wider and wider as it plunged in and out – he was horribly, horribly used to that by now.

But the pins and needles from the returning circulation in his legs – that was _murder_.

"You got him, Jared?" Now there was only one alpha holding him in front, as Lee walked over to the side. Sam twisted his head to follow him _(funny how easy it was to take something like being able to turn your head for granted until you couldn't)_ as he walked over to the grill, put on a cooking mitt, and then picked up the metal rod that had been cooking in the coals. The tip was a funny shape, like a little almost-full-circle, and the entire end was glowing a malevolent red-orange from the heat.

An omega brand. Largely out of use these days, now considered cruel and excessive in an era where a tattoo was equally effective and far less painful. Sam flailed instinctively at its sight, struggling to get away, but managed to calm himself. He could feel his legs catching under him, could actually feel his toes now. _Focus on that. Don't think about what's coming. Don't think–_

Something landed on Sam's ass with a soft _thwap_ – Lee had tossed over a second mitt. "You in position, Pa?"

The old man rammed his knot fully inside Sam, then picked up the mitt. "This's the best part," he leered at Jared. "Th' brand makes 'em contract around ya. Y'think getting yer knot tied feels good, you have _no idea_. It's like heaven."

"That why you always wait until the end, old man?" Roger yelled from his chair. He raised his beer in a toast, the other hand holding Missy's head firmly in place between his legs, lips wrapped around his cock.

_His toes. Sam could wiggle his toes._ He pretended to lose his balance, shifting his legs stealthily so there was more weight on them. It pushed him further back onto – _not thinking about that right now. Eyes on the prize_.

Pa Bender laughed. "At my age, man's only got one good knot in 'im a day. Best not to waste it."

Sam could smell the heated iron of the brand when the elder Bender took it from Lee. He steeled himself, hoping there was enough alpha left in him–

Pain washed over and through him as the brand seared into his lower back. He could smell his flesh burning _cooking_ turning _black_ and the smell of _charred meat_ as fiery hell scorched its way through the layers of his skin–

One of the prime physiological differences between alphas and omegas was their differing fight-or-flight reflexes. In a life-threatening situation, omegas instinctively reacted by making themselves appear less threatening and blanketing themselves in pheromones designed to calm and soothe anyone in their immediate vicinity. Alphas, on the other hand, reacted with a burst of adrenaline and aggression relative to the threat being faced. Facing a significant enough threat, this reaction could override the alpha's internal instincts toward self-preservation; restrained alphas had been known to severely injure themselves struggling to break free and not even realize it until later. In a life-or-death situation where an alpha was not restrained – or insufficiently restrained – he would most often react with violence, entering a quasi-berserker stage where reaction time was heightened and pain sensory feedback was suppressed.

As far as his physiological reflexes were concerned, Sam was still an alpha. And he was no longer _sufficiently_ restrained.

Sam roared, blood pounding as adrenaline shot through him. His muscles rippled as his hands broke out of their bonds, the leather falling free. He could hear a commotion in the background, chairs overturning as drunken alphas and betas staggered to their feet to react.

He flung himself free of Jared, shouldering the alpha to one side. There was a ripping, tearing sensation as Sam turned; he was vaguely aware that he had probably just damaged himself somehow – guess the muscles _did_ contract. But whatever he'd done to himself was worth it because Pa Bender was bent over, yelling obscenities and clutching at his bloodied knot, and the poker was on the ground.

Sam grabbed the poker, ignoring the sizzling as as his hand grasped it tightly, muscles clenching as the hot metal seared his fingers. He swung it up, jabbing the red-hot omega brand into the elderly Bender's abdomen. Hands grabbed him from behind, and he flung himself backwards, knocking his attacker back as he spun around and swung the poker right into that asshole Cletus' nuts. The jeans protected him from the burn, but the force of the blow drove the larger alpha to his knees. Sam continued his sweep, hitting Lee Bender's chest squarely and smiling as his flesh began to sear under the brand. He swerved to avoid the alpha's punch, fending him off with the poker as the adrenaline began to leave his overly exhausted system.

Huge meaty hands grabbed him from behind as he made a wild stab towards Jared with the poker – the sheriff on one side, and Roger on the other with his goddamn stupid farmer tan. Pa Bender was still howling in the background.

"Earle, get more ketamine into him," Hank yelled. He wrenched Sam's arm painfully behind him, trying to get him into a headlock. Moses grabbed for Sam's feet but he kicked out, sending the older alpha flying backwards. Then Zeb tackled his legs low and wrapped his arms around both of them.

A chair slammed down across Sam's wrist, knocking the poker out of his hand – he looked down at it, absently noting the blacked burn marks across his palm and fingers. They wiggled – he hadn't destroyed all the nerves – but the lack of pain was a bad sign.

Grinning, Phil dropped the chair and stepped in, punching Sam in the abdomen. He tried to twist in his captors' hands to absorb the blow, but his strength was ebbing sharply and the punch knocked most of his air out of him.

Then there was a stabbing pain in Sam's neck – a needle, it felt like – and that horrible lassitude began to spread through him again. His knees buckled. Zeb let go and scooted back as the sheriff twisted his arm up further, forcing him to kneel.

Lee Bender staggered over, grabbing the poker off the ground with his mitt. He raised it above his head, the seared omega symbol clearly visible on his bare chest where Sam had struck him. "Yeah, you keep on smiling. Let's see how you smile when I shove this poker right up yer ass–"

A shotgun blast thundered through the barn. A second echoed right afterwards, knocking the poker flying from Lee's hand.

Sam looked up groggily. Then he smiled. "Dad-" His eyes rolled up in his head as he passed out.

John Winchester stood in the open barn door, cocking his now-reloaded shotgun and aiming it carefully. "Get your goddamn hands off my _son_."


	6. Deliverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Dean face off against the alphas of Hibbing.

Hank let go of the now-unconscious boy, letting Roger's arms take the omega's full weight. Then he raised up his hands, chewed on his tobacco for a moment, and spit it out to one side as he straightened up. "Now, before you go doing anything rash you might regret, I'd like to point out that that shotgun you're so handy with just holds two rounds, and there are a good sight more'a us than that."

Behind the sheriff, Phil cracked his knuckles threateningly and Jared chuckled darkly.

Just then Dean walked into view, Taurus out and aimed firmly at the sheriff. "Well, then, it's a good thing _this_ gun holds more than enough bullets to take out all of you, with a few left over in case I miss."

The amusement from the drunken alphas died off, angry muttering taking its place. The air hung heavy with pheromones as lust and anger and fear churned potently together.

"All right now, everybody calm down. Let's talk this out like civilized human beings." The sheriff took a step forward, lowering his hands. "None of us are here to get between a father and his son. We are in fact all here in the rightful, legal execution of the law, as remanded by the Hibbing County Court."

"Tell me I can shoot him, Dad," Dean said lowly, moving in closer to John. "Just say the word."

Hank sneered. "Funny thing, right after you left, I mean, _right_ after you left, couldn'ta been five minutes, your boy came wailing on back through town looking for revenge. I'm talking full-on alpha rage, here – broke up a whole lotta personal property, bused some heads. Why, it took the whole lot of us to take him down, and I've got a whole passel of witnesses willing to swear to it too, don't I boys?" There was a quick murmur of assent behind him.

"I'll just bet you do," Dean muttered. He looked over at John. His father's eyes were locked onto Sam's slumped unconscious figure. The boy was breathing shallowly, and his color didn't look very good.

"Since you were nowhere to be found, just a couple 'a drifters and the boy having no solid form of ID, we had no evidence he'd be able to provide restitution, so he was tried like any other alpha of age. Hibbing County's still got the bitching laws on the books, and the judge-" there was a guffaw from somewhere in back at that, quickly silenced with a sharp look from Hank "-the judge determined that bitching would be proper restitution for all the damage he did while raging. Why, the cost of that window alone in Clem's store–"

_"That window was broke when we got there and you know it!"_ Dean snarled.

"Really?" Hank smiled, but his eyes were hard and flinty. "Because that's not what the official report says, and you won't find a citizen in this town that'll testify otherwise."

"This is _bullshit_ , Dad!" Dean growled. He clicked the safety off of the Taurus.

"Stand _down_ , Dean," John said. "Sam is priority one here." Dean could tell that his father didn't like it any better than him, though, his fingers clenched so tightly on the shotgun that his fingertips were white.

"Listen to your father, _Dean_ ," Hank said, taking another step forward.

"Threaten my son one more time, _Sheriff_ ," John said, "and I'll let him start shooting."

Behind the sheriff, Lee inched stealthily toward Roger and the boy, taking advantage of the cover afforded by the alphas standing in front of him. He had his knife out. No matter how things went down, he was going to carve a few more reminders into the omega's hide for what he'd done to him and his pa.

"Now, as we are good, law-abidin' citizens of this town," the sheriff said, "you can take your new omega and-"

"What the _fuck_?!" George yelled, staggering forward. "You _can't_ just let 'im go! You saw what he did to Pa!" He pointed toward the elderly Bender, who was now collapsed on the floor, unconscious, his pants still down around his knees. Zeb and Moses were kneeling over him, looking worried as they examined his abdomen.

_"Yeah!"_ Cletus joined in. "He nearly burned my nuts off, and what about Phil's tooth here?!"

Dean smirked at that, proud of his little brother.

Under cover of the commotion, Lee reached forward for Sam. Just a little more and–

_BLAM!_ The Bender howled as a bullet exploded through his knee, falling back onto the ground with a sob.

"Whoops!" Dean shrugged unapologetically, the muzzle of his Taurus smoking. "Guess my hand slipped."

Fists bared, Jared surged forward toward Dean, only to be held in check – barely – by Phil, who yanked him back by one shoulder.

_"EVERYBODY SETTLE THE FUCK DOWN!"_ the sheriff yelled. "Now, _as I was sayin'…_ seein' as how we are all good, _law-abidin'_ citizens of this town, and seeing as the sentence has been handed down and carried out, there is no reason why you two gentlemen can't take your new omega home. I'm sure we'd all be happy to stand around jawin' some more, but your boy doesn't look like he's doin' too well." He nodded at Sam, who was twitching uncontrollably in Roger's arms. Fortunately, after a few seconds the movement stilled; Sam let out what sounded like a whimper and then went back to breathing shallowly.

Earle stepped out from behind Hank. "It's true, some omegas take to bitchin' harder'n others. And we had to use tranqs to keep him calm. Come t'think of it, that second hit mighta been a bit more than the proscribed amount… seeing as he was strugglin' pretty hard at the time and ketamine's not an exact science."

The sheriff smirked. "Now, way I see it, you can take your gun and play God while your omega maybe dies, or you can take your boy and go, no harm, no foul, not even for putting a bullet in Lee over there."

Earle nodded, feeling cockier after realizing the armed men didn't know he was a doctor. "There's a 24-hour omega clinic a county over, not too far a drive. They'll see to him."

"What's more important to you," Hank asked, "your need for revenge or your son's life?"

John's face was a blank mask. Dean glanced at him, then over at Sammy, still slumped against the alpha holding him. The fat sweaty farmer shifted under Dean's unforgiving gaze, and Sam's head lolled back listlessly.

Dean looked back at his father helplessly, gun still trained on the sheriff. "Say the word, Dad. It's your call."

John glanced from Sam to the sheriff and back again. Then he stepped forward, decision made.

"All of you, get your backs against the wall over there." John gestured with the gun. He nodded at Pa Bender. "Drag the old man with you or leave him there, I don't care."

The sheriff looked over his shoulder at the shopkeep. "Clem, get the boy's clothes." The tall beta slunk backwards out of sight, returning a moment later with a small pile of clothes that he dropped next to Roger.

John slung his shotgun across his back and held out his hand to Dean. "Go get your brother. I'll cover you."

For a moment, Dean almost disobeyed his father… but then his brother slumped forward bonelessly, eyes open but unfocused, as the fat balding alpha holding him stepped away, and there wasn't a choice any longer.

Sammy came first.

He handed John the Taurus and walked cautiously forward, never taking his eyes off the alphas who were backing away. When he reached his brother, Dean took off his jacket and propped Sam up enough to slide it over him, then piled Sam's clothing onto his lap, blanching a little at the still-attached widow's clamp and piercings. He resolutely scooped Sam up into his arms, trying not to think about the wetness he felt covering the back of his brother's thighs, and walked backwards to John. Then the Winchesters backed out through the barn's door, John covering Dean as they went.

"Don't worry," the sheriff called out behind them, "we're all friends here. We're a civilized town!"

As soon as they were clear of the door, John nodded to Dean. "There's a blanket in the Impala's trunk. Go ahead and wrap your brother in that, then get him settled on the back seat."

"But-" Dean started to argue.

"Just do it," John ordered, popping up the trunk lid and tossing the blanket to Dean. "I'll be fast." He rifled around in the trunk for a few moments more, then vanished.

True to his word, John appeared at the car a few minutes later, reeking of anger and chemicals. "I'll drive. You sit in the back with Sammy and keep an eye on him."

Dean nodded, sliding into the back seat next to Sam. "What do we do now?"

"Now?" John said. "Now I settle fast at the motel and grab our bags, while you keep an eye on Sammy's vitals and find me the address of an omega clinic at least three counties away." He put the car in gear and pulled out onto the gravel road, going as fast as the Chevy could handle. "After that… we'll do the best we can by Sam."

Dean looked back at the farm they'd just come from. He could see smoke over the treetops. "Dad… what did you _do_ back there?"

John stared straight ahead, eyes on the road. "…I set the barn on fire."

Dean hugged his unconscious brother to him, torn between brushing his hair away from his face or leaving it where it covered the metal rings someone had inserted into Sam's ears. "Think you got any of 'em?"

John shook his head. "That wasn't the point."

Sam twitched in Dean's arms then, a full-body shudder running though him. Dean wrapped the blanket tighter around him, then looked back up. "So what _was_ the point, then?"

John stared into the rear-view mirror, meeting Dean's eyes. "Making sure no one ever uses those goddamn stocks again."


	7. Check-up or Drop-off?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mercy Care Omega Clinic over in Baxter looked pathetically bereft of either mercy or care.

_ **Three hours earlier** _

The Mercy Care Omega Clinic over in Baxter looked pathetically bereft of either mercy or care, but it was a) open twenty-four hours, b) far enough away from Hibbing for breathing room, and c) far less likely to raise questions than any large-city clinic like the one in Brainerd.

Sam was… well, he _was_ , but that was the extent of their knowledge. He was feverish, his vitals were elevated above sleep levels, and he hadn't woken up yet. Which might be the effects of the tranquilizers they'd given him? Or it might be perfectly normal. Maybe he was doing as well as could be expected, maybe something terrible was happening; it was all totally beyond John and Dean's expertise.

The point was, they had no fucking idea, and _that_ was why they were pulling up in front of a clinic that looked like its tagline ought to be "Where Hope Goes To Die." The faded teal-and-white paint across its front was cracked and peeling, and the daisies someone had planted along the sides of the building had mostly withered in the heat, turning something that might have been welcoming into the Auschwitz of flower beds.

The buzzer next to the brown and wilted shrubbery to the left of the door bleated faintly when John pressed it and then fell silent. When the door cracked open a minute later and a sharp-faced beta with curly bluish-grey hair peered out, Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Check-up or drop-off?" the nurse asked, then focused in on the blanket-wrapped figure in Dean's arms. Her lips pursed in what Dean hoped was sympathy as she reassessed the situation. "Intake?"

John nodded tersely. "Intake."

"One moment." She shut the door again crisply. Then Dean heard locks unlatching, and the door opened fully as she stood aside to admit them.

"You're in luck," she said, "we've got an open exam room at the moment." She ushered them into a very impersonal exam room, with grey walls, a small table with medical instruments, and a surgical steel table in the middle covered by a light paper sheet.

"Remove any articles of clothing that the omega may still be wearing, then lay him down on the table here on his side." She patted the table for emphasis, like Dean was somehow going to miss the one piece of furniture in the room.

Dean let his jacket drop off Sam's shoulders onto the floor reluctantly. His brother looked so vulnerable lying naked on the table. It was the first chance he'd had to really _look_ at him since the barn, other than a cursory check for broken bones or bleeding. The burn across Sam's palm was the worst, but his arms and legs were covered in bruises and scratches. And then there was that blasted circular metal clamp on Sam's privates. He wanted to just rip it off, but had no idea if he should. Hopefully the doctor would know.

In the meantime, he could at least respect his brother's privacy, Dean thought, and went to cover him with the blanket. The nurse stopped him with a gesture – "I know you mean well, sweetie, but the turning fever's going to have him burning up. And he doesn't have anything I haven't seen before. If I was upset at the sight of a naked omega, I'd be in a different line of work, for sure!"

"Well, lady, _you_ might not, but I know _Sam_ would be upset, lying like this, if he were awake right now." Dean fussed as he arranged Sam on the table so that the burned skin on his back wasn't being pulled taut. "Don't you have any of those paper robes at least, something with a little bit of dignity?"

The nurse clucked at him maternally, almost patting him on the arm before looking at his expression and thinking better of it. "You alphas are so protective, but I promise you, omegas aren't bothered by things like nudity. They're not like you or me."

Dean scowled, aware that he had almost started growling at the beta. But this was _Sammy_ she was talking about.

John looked over at Dean, _keep-it-together_ implicit in his eyes. "Dean-"

The door clicked open. "Well now, where's our patient?"

Both Winchesters swiveled toward the door as an older alpha doctor walked in, snapping his latex gloves on as he entered. He was older but still buff, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes, and a sturdy build under his lab coat that spoke of weekends spent working out. Dean felt his hackles suddenly rise, and the next thing he knew he was standing defensively between the doctor and his brother, more than a little confused as to what had just happened.

The doctor paused. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Dr. Aframian." He raised his hand in a universal handshake gesture. "Am I right in assuming you're either John or Dean Wesson?"

John spoke up. "He's Dean, and I'm his father, John." He paused, then looked down at the table. "And this is my other son, Sam."

Dean found himself growling slightly, then shook his head and stepped to one side, ignoring the doctor's outstretched hand.

John and Dr. Aframian exchanged glances. "Lois," the doctor said casually, "why don't you escort Dean over to admissions so he can start filling out Sam's paperwork?"

John's pointed look cut off the protest forming in Dean's throat. "I've got this, Dean. Go get everything in order."

'Getting everything in order' was a misnomer, Winchester shorthand for keeping the registration desk busy without actually _completing_ any paperwork, and whenever one of the boys had been injured, it was standard protocol for the other to handle it while John played the worried, distracted father and forgot to sign anything incriminating or indemnifying. In this case, it was also clearly busy work to keep Dean occupied and out of John's hair, but after his unexpected reactions to the doctor, Dean was a little relieved at the prospect.

"I'm on it, Dad."

* * *

Admissions was yet another dismal room, with file cabinets, two desks with computers and messily full in-boxes, and uncomfortable rigid plastic chairs for guests. Lois led Dean over to an ugly orange chair in front of the desk closest to the door and shuffled paper around so he would have room to write.

"Don't feel embarrassed, dear." The nurse patted Dean's shoulder sympathetically. "We see territorial displays all the time. It's the turning pheromones – just nature's way of keeping new omegas safe by making the alphas close to them feel super-protective. You were probably breathing the pheromones in your entire car ride. Your reaction is perfectly natural."

Dean shifted uncomfortably because _that_ idea wasn't creepy, no, not at all. "Yeah, sure, okay." He looked around the room. "So where's this paperwork?"

Lois smiled. "Sandy will be in to help with it in just a minute, dear. In the meantime, can I get you some coffee or anything?"

Dean drummed his fingers on the desk distractedly, already wishing he was back in the room with Sam and his dad. "Yeah, I guess."

A few minutes later, Lois returned with a cup of tepid black coffee and a bored-looking beta wielding a clipboard. "This is Sandy." As far as betas go, she was decently hot – mid-20s, with straight brown hair, freckles, and long legs showcased by a skirt that was definitely shorter than regulation length. When she saw Dean, she smiled and straightened up, not-so-subtly sticking out her chest. Under any other circumstance, he would have been happy to ogle at her attributes. Now he just wanted to get done and get out.

"You with the omega they just brought in?" she asked chirpily, pulling up a form on her computer.

"You got any other omegas that just arrived?" Dean responded snarkily, then sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. Let's start over – yes, he's my brother."

She hummed sympathetically. "I'm _so_ sorry. I can see you're worried, so let's try to get through this quickly and then you can get back to your family."

"Yeah, uh, that'd be great." Dean sipped his coffee and grimaced. The faster he got out of there, the better. He didn't like having Sammy out of his sight.

"Okay, here we go. Name?"

"Uh, Dean." He shifted his chair so he could see out into the hallway. Just in case.

Her long nails clacked over the keys, _tacketa-tacketa_. "And will you be changing Dean's name?"

"Huh?" He jerked his attention back to the clerk. "No, I mean, Dean's _my_ name. Sorry. The patient's name is Samuel Wesson. I'm Dean Wesson. He's Sam. My brother." Jeez, he was rambling.

_Tacketa-tacketa-tack._ "And will you be changing his name?"

"Why the _hell_ would I want to do that? His name is Sam – Samuel. That's his _name_."

Sandy sighed. "It's just a routine question, Dean, there's no offense intended. Many people feel that some alpha names simply do not properly represent an omega's true nature. In these cases, many families choose to shorten or change the name altogether, for example, changing Frank to Francis or going for a more neutral name like Robin. Or you could just pick a diminutive. Something like Sammy?"

_Sammy is a chubby 12-year-old_ , his mind unhelpfully supplied his brother's grumpy response whenever Dean slipped up and called him that lately. He breathed out, trying to remain calm. None of this was Sandy's fault. "His name is _Samuel_. No change."

"Age?"

"Um, 18."

"And that would also be the age of turning, correct?"

"That would be the case, yes, give or take five hours."

_Tacketa-tacketa_. "Original hair and eye color?"

"Brown. Hazel." He leaned forward. "You said original – is that going to change?"

She paused. "His eyes may develop a golden ring around the iris, but their basic color should remain stable. Was your O shaved at the time of turning?"

"…Not his head, no."

"In that case, no, the turning will not affect his hair. If he had been shaved, there would be a chance it would grow in differently, or not at all. Now, his height and weight _will_ shift over the next two weeks, which is why we don't bother asking that."

Dean put his head in his hands and groaned. "This is so fucked up."

Sandy stopped typing. "I assure you, this tragic event happens to hundreds of families every year, but it doesn't have to be the end of the world." The beta delivered the obviously oft-used speech with the clipped precision of someone who would never have to worry about it being applied to her. "Think of this as a gateway to a new stage in your brother's life. When one door closes, another opens, right?" She leaned forward, giving Dean an ample view of her cleavage. "And remember, _all_ of us are here to assist you in this time of transition, with _anything_ you need."

"Uh, thanks? Let's, uh, just get this over with."

She smiled, looking a little disappointed as she turned back to the computer. "Have you registered Samuel?"

"This just happened like a few hours ago – we haven't exactly had time to do that." He caught himself tapping his fingers again and held his hand firm against the desk to stop it.

"Understood." _Tacketa-tack-tack._ "Has he at least been branded?"

Dean growled. " _At least?_ You mean that's a regular _thing_ you do here? That wasn't just some kind of fucked-up Deliverance-style redneck kind of torture thing?"

Sandy frowned, then leaned to her left to open a side drawer. "I realize you aren't from this state, but omega branding is a _perfectly_ acceptable traditional form of marking." After rifling around in the drawer, she pulled out a pamphlet and pushed it towards Dean. "While Minnesota is one of only eight states that currently mandate it by law, branding is _still_ recognized in the majority of the 50 states. Administered with proper local anesthetic, it is quick and relatively painless for the omega, and provides a permanent marker to avoid gender deception or obfuscation."

Like there was any way Sam was going to be able to hide the fact that he was an omega. _Jesus, the way he smelled –_ okay, Dean wasn't going to follow that train of thought any further.

He glanced down at the booklet she'd given him. "Your Omega and You: An Alpha's Guide." _Riveting._ He pocketed it to read later. "It's just – shouldn't you be more concerned with, you know, doing a rape kit on him or something rather than all this?"

She smiled, all friendly again. "Oh no, during turning an omega's body is extremely resilient against disease. The prolonged fever and physiological changes are enough to 'burn out' any potential STDs your omega may have been exposed to. There's no reason for any testing of any sort except under exceptional circumstances." She hummed encouragingly. "Now where were we? Oh yes, please specify the location of your omega's brand."

He tried not to think about the smell of Sam's burnt flesh. "Lower back, in the middle."

_Tacketa-tack-tacketa._ "Now, Mercy Care also offers a number of _optional_ omega programs. These programs are not free, but public assistance _is_ available for families with lower incomes. Would you like to request neutering, castration, circumcision or other genital modification services for your omega?"

"What?" Dean wanted to hurl at the thought. "No! What the fuck-"

Sandy tapped her fingers against the desk. "Neutering and castration have both proven beneficial in male omegas' emotional adaptation. It calms them, diminishing aggressive reactions, and does not conflict with fertility."

"Yeah, that's still a big N-O," Dean growled.

"I am required by law to tell you that we do also offer spaying," Sandy continued, "but only with a doctor's certificate confirming that the O's personality renders them irrevocably non-viable as a carrier. In general, we do not recommend this procedure, as breeding is core to an omega's identity, and spaying can lead to depression and other mental illnesses."

"Uh, no and no, that would have to be entirely up to Sammy."

She entered a notation on the computer. "How very progressive of you."

"Yeah, that's me, progressive." His father had better hurry the fuck up, Dean thought. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

"Additionally, I must notify you that we do not maintain plastic surgery services on site, but upon request can provide you with a list of certified providers who specialize in post-transition feminization and facial reconstruction surgeries."

Dean's stomach twisted. " _NO!_ No modification of any kind. What the fuck is _wrong_ with this state?" He tried and failed to calm himself. " _Fuck,_ no. Just… no."

* * *

John wasn't faring much better than Dean, doing his best to hold in his temper as Dr. Aframian prodded and felt up his son's limp form while dictating notes to the nurse.

He'd first flashed a light into Sam's eyes, tilting the head to watch the pupils contract. "Omega is conscious but unresponsive to stimuli. Normally this would be a grave concern, but it is acceptable given the prior administration of ketamine… Temperature is high, but not in the danger zone… No sign of infection in or around the ear piercings, suggesting that his healing processes have resumed." He produced a small spray bottle from a coat pocket and spritzed it over the metal inserts in Sam's ears. "Antibacterial agent applied as a precautionary measure."

John shifted uncomfortably. "About that… could you just remove them? I think Sam would be a lot more comfortable with this if he woke up and didn't have such visible reminders of his experience."

The doctor shook his head. "I would have to advise against it – during turning, the skin and piercings fuse together-" he tugged at one of the rings to demonstrate "-but the skin will naturally pull away from the metal a week or so after turning, and they could be removed at that point. Trying to remove the piercings before then would lead to scarring, lasting cosmetic damage and potential nerve damage, depending on the piercing's location."

Lois gave John a maternal smile. "Why not leave the choice up to your omega? They are instinctively attracted to shiny and pretty objects, you know. Your omega may very well decide he loves them."

"On a more practical level," the doctor added, "if you decide not to keep your omega, the rings will add to his resale value. They _are_ quite attractive on him."

_Resale value. Jesus._ Privately, John decided that he would pull the damned things out the minute he could do so without hurting Sam, but he wasn't going to waste time arguing about it now.

"Well then… moving on," the doctor pressed on Sam's chest and then his abdomen. "Muscular tone is excellent. Hip spread is narrow. It'll take about six months for his internal reproductive organs to reach full maturity, during which time the pelvis should broaden, but you should have him checked out at that time to make sure he won't have any problems as a carrier, and _definitely_ before allowing him to be bred."

_As a carrier. Bred._ His stubborn alpha son would be able to get pregnant. John's head swam.

He nearly jumped a moment later at a soft touch to his shoulder – Lois, standing there with a glass of water, urging him to drink. "This can all be very overwhelming, Mr. Wesson. But omegas have been being turned for centuries. It will all be okay."

He sipped at the water gratefully, then swiveled around at the _clank_ of something metal hitting the exam table – the doctor had removed the widow's clamp while John had been lost in his head.

The piercings. _Jesus, look at them._ It wasn't like John hadn't seen Sam's genitals before – three alphas sharing one hotel room, not to mention treating each other's wounds, left little space for privacy. But seeing what indignities Sam had been forced to endure, the little damning row of metal running the length of his cock…

The doctor lifted Sam's penis in one gloved hand. "It's okay if you don't have an answer to this, Mr. Wesson, but can you estimate his length before turning?"

John just stared at him. Surely he was joking. "No… no, I can't. Longer than it currently is, I would guess? But I don't know."

Dr. Aframian smiled sympathetically. "That's perfectly fine, Mr. Wesson." He turned back to Sam and resumed dictating to Lois. "Testes have partially receded. Recession should be complete within 48 hours, and reabsorption in another week after that. Estimated penile length after turning is six inches – with manual stimulation…" He hummed for a minute as he briskly masturbated Sam to hardness. "Oh my, seven and a half. Remarkable. No indication of any remaining knot, most likely due to the employment of an erectile clamp during turning."

The doctor turned back to John. "Besides the reabsorption of the testes, which is proceeding as expected, an omega's turning usually reduces the penis to approximately three to four inches. At a guess, the extensive genital decorations have stalled this reduction in length. This may cause some emotional or mental distress in the omega once he realizes that his appearance deviates significantly from the omega ideal, but poses no threat to his health."

If John crossed his legs at the doctor's words, it had absolutely nothing to do with the transformation Sam was experiencing or the loss of his knot. _Nothing._

"It's _possible_ that the penis might reduce further with the removal of the piercings, which is an avenue you might want to explore in the future." He sprayed them down with the antibacterial spray, then added, "On the other hand, if you like your omega's current appearance, I would recommend keeping them in permanently to be safe."

Dr. Aframian shifted one of Sam's knees so that his perineum was fully exposed and frowned. "Lois, wipe the patient down, please. We still have dried blood and fluids around the groin and the rectal cavity."

_Fluids._ John's stomach turned yet again as the beta dutifully swept in with gloves and antibacterial wipes. If only he hadn't been so angry with Sam–

Light glinted recriminatingly off yet another piercing through his son's flesh as the nurse efficiently cleaned the area under Sam's balls, then moved downward toward his ass. He wanted to look away, but grimly made himself watch, as if somehow knowing every horrible thing that had happened to his son could possibly make up for the fact that he had let his son down so terribly.

_His fault,_ he thought dumbly. _If only…_

When she finished, the doctor returned to the examination, running a finger down a thin red line that began about two inches under that ring. "Now, here you can see the vestigial stages of his birthing canal. The canal itself will remain closed, opening only approximately two weeks before a delivery and closing shortly thereafter."

He glanced further back and frowned. "The omega's anus shows visible signs of tearing and distress." He looked over to John. "Was this a supervised turning? If so, you should file a complaint for unprofessional behavior."

"No," John said heavily, "…this wasn't planned."

The doctor nodded sympathetically. "That's a shame – there are still avenues you could explore legally, but I'm not sure the damage done is worth the time and money it would take to pursue them. Fortunately, most of this is superficial tissue damage, and should heal cleanly."

He felt up and around Sam's rectum, working two fingers clinically into his hole. "Muscular reaction to internal stimulation is good. No indicators of significant damage inside." He pressed in further, doing something with his fingers that elicited an insensate groan from Sam. "Prostate is slightly engorged, but of acceptable size and reactivity."

He pulled his fingers out and snapped off the glove, replacing it with a clean one. "It's probably just overstimulated from the turning process, but I would recommend you have it rechecked in six weeks to eliminate any possible health issues. The omega's natural healing processes should repair the observed tears and irritation within the next 48 hours. I'll apply the antibacterial agent to be on the safe side, however."

After setting the spray aside, Dr. Aframian looked over to his nurse. "Lois, a little help here?" Together, they rolled Sam fully onto his stomach.

"The brand looks good. It should produce a clear, clean scar with little unwanted damage to the surrounding skin. Slight foreign matter contamination-" Sam whimpered as the doctor briskly traced the brand's outline with one finger "-cleared. Most likely cloth fiber. Risk of infection minimal."

"What about his hand?" Sam's right hand – his gun hand, flesh seared, charred, blackened by the same metal that John had shot out of that alpha's grasp before it could be slammed down upon his head.

The doctor clucked disapprovingly, turning the hand over carefully to examine the burn. "I see he resisted the brand?"

John nodded, unexpectedly choked up with pride. Even tortured, raped, his boy had gone down fighting.

"The hand has sustained severe second-degree burns, but it will heal overall." Dr. Aframian shifted uncomfortably. "Do you want me to treat it now or just bandage it as-is?"

The eldest Winchester furrowed his brow. "What's the difference?"

The doctor held up Sam's hand, exposing the badly seared flesh. "Right now, the burns have begun to fuse the fingers together. Left untreated, the healing process has the potential to 'graft' the fingers together, leading to a loss of dexterity. Some alphas prefer that damage incurred through resistance remain untreated as a lesson to the omega. Permanent disfigurement tends to _deter_ potential inclinations towards insubordination."

"What? _No!_ " John was aghast. "I want you to do everything you can to restore his hand to full mobility. Like anyone should."

The doctor smiled, clearly relieved by John's decision. "I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Wesson." He picked up a scalpel. "It's the more enlightened choice. Fortunately, the tranquilizers in your omega's system will keep this next part from being overly painful."

Sam screamed anyway.

* * *

Sam was back in the floaty in-between place. It wasn't Hell, this place. Maybe Purgatory. Strange faceless beings in white robes poked and prodded him, their fingers setting off strange bursts of pain and pleasure. He tried to move away from them but his limbs felt cumbersome and foreign, like he'd been buried in something invisibly heavy that pressed down on him from all sides.

When the pain came, it was unexpected and excruciating, like someone was flaying his hand finger by finger.

Distantly, he thought he heard his brother and his father yelling. Maybe they had found a way in to look for him. He wanted to tell them not to bother. It was too late. He could feel Hell's poison running through his blood now, changing him into something else. Something other than _Sam_.

The inevitable darkness that followed the pain was welcome.

* * *

_Hell._ Dean was in paperwork hell. All of his instincts were shouting for him to get back to Sam's side, and instead he had to make nice and answer pointless question after question.

Sandy smiled encouragingly. "Almost done now, just one section left to go." She slid the clipboard over to Dean, tapping on the top page. "If your family wants to receive compensation for your omega, I'll need you to fill out form O32."

"Compensation?" Dean was lost. "For what?"

"By law, Minnesota is unable to provide financial remuneration for omegas surrendered to the state without completion of O32." She pointed to the bottom of the second page. "I know it looks intimidating, but you only need to fill out this section. I can fill in the rest from your existing answers."

"No, wait, back up." He flipped the document back to the front page, trying to skim over it. "What the hell are you talking about, 'surrendered'?"

She placed her hand his placatingly. "It's okay. Many families may experience transitory guilt or shame at turning their omega over to the state. However, these emotions are misplaced. There's absolutely no social stigma generated by surrendering your omega. In fact, 87% of the newly turned omegas we receive are remanded to the state by familial request. All omegas so surrendered are trained and re-homed humanely, and in full compliance with Minnesota state law."

Dean reared back, knocking over his empty coffee cup as he ripped the clipboard out of her hands. "There's been some mistake. We are absolutely _not_ surrendering Sammy to anyone."

Sandy blinked in surprise. "But-"

He growled. "Not surrendering, no way, no how. Sammy is staying with us."

Now it was her turn to be confused. "But you brought him in unmarked and untagged. If you wanted to keep him-"

" _Marked?_ You telling me I gotta _masturbate_ over my little brother if I want to keep him?" He squashed down the tiny dark part of his feral alpha brain that wasn't upset at that idea. The clipboard cracked unintentionally in his grip as he clenched his fingers agitatedly.

"Well, you or your father, but-" she inched away from him as he sharply drew in breath.

_"Not surrendering,"_ he snarled through clenched teeth, standing up to loom over her.

Sandy nodded nervously. "Okay, okay, it was just a misunderstanding, sir."

_Sir_ , not Dean, he noted with satisfaction. And that was it. He was _done_ with all this.

"Clarify something for me, _Sandy_. If I _had_ wanted to, I could have, what, just dragged Sammy in here, told you to change his legal name to Elvis, paid you to cut off his nuts and give him tits-"

"-Sir, we only provide _referrals_ for plastic surgery-"

"Yeah, what-the-fuck ever. Point is, I could have asked for all that and you'd just fucking _do_ it? Even if I didn't want to keep him, you'd just turn him into whatever sick little fantasy my mind could come up with, and then _pay_ me for the 'privilege' of walking away knowing he's the one who has to live with it? And he gets no say about it?" _Yelling_ , he was yelling, but he didn't care. "What the fuck is _wrong_ with you people?"

Sandy's hackles were up now too, standing up quickly enough to almost knock her chair over. "Mr. Wesson, just because you are not a resident of Minnesota, that does _not_ give you the right-"

"Don't even start with me about rights, lady-" He leaned forward, slamming his fist heavily down on the desk, not even bothering to check the aggressive pheromones rolling off of him, even though they were wasted on a beta. "You are the _last_ one to say anything about rights when-"

"May I remind you, _sir_ , that you should watch your behavior." Gone was the flirtatious attitude. Lust had stewed into righteous indignation. "Once an omega has been checked in, state law provides for alpha reassignment in the case that a caretaker alpha proves _unsuitable_ in temperament-"

_"Well, it's a goddamn good thing he hasn't been checked in yet then, isn't it?"_ He grabbed the mouse out of her hand and clicked the "CANCEL" button, then slammed it back down on the desk.

"You are _sick_ , lady. _Sick_. You and this whole state can go to hell and keep your goddamn hands _off_ my brother." He spun and all but leapt out of the room, bounding down the hall to the examination room.

"-As I was staying, state law requires all omegas to be tagged for their own safety," Dr. Aframian was saying as the door slammed open.

John, Lois and the doctor – who was holding some kind of syringe – all spun around.

"Dean," John started. "What-"

Dean knew he looked like he was one step away from full alpha rage. Fuck, he realized, he probably _was._ "Get Sammy, dad. There is no _way_ I'm letting them treat him here. We're taking him out of this fucked-up state. We can get him looked at someplace _normal_."

Sandy was tagging along behind him, outright glaring at him. "Mr. Wesson, you _do_ realize that since your omega was turned in our state, he will still be regulated under Minnesota law, don't you?"

Dean didn't even bother to turn around. "Yeah, well, your state law is also the one that allowed my baby brother to get _raped_ in the first place, so I don't really give a shit." They'd be off the radar the minute they left the clinic.

John looked appraisingly at Dean. The boy was overwrought by the whole experience, but something had to be deeply wrong for him to go off like this. When Dean caught his eye, he nodded slightly, letting his son know he'd back the play.

Dr. Aframian sighed, looking at the two agitated alphas. Some nights it just wasn't worth it to be on-call. "Let it go, Sandy. They're within their rights to take him to another clinic _within the state_ , and to the best of our knowledge _that's_ what you're planning, right?" He stared at John, willing the older alpha to take the out he was giving them.

John met his eyes. "Right."

The doctor radiated pacifying pheromones as he put the syringe in his hand back by a small pile of other needles. Then he turned to Dean. "The only thing I haven't done yet is give him his vaccinations – the turning will invalidate the ones he received as an alpha. Why don't you let me finish those and we'll just charge you for the check-up. Okay?"

John nodded again at Dean, watching as his son relaxed marginally. "That sounds fine, Dr. Aframian."

"Lois, go ahead and get a new omega starter care kit together for the Wessons." The doctor moved slowly and cautiously in front of the other two upset alphas, giving the nurse time to exit the room. Once she was clear, he lifted the small clump of syringes from the table, announcing each one before carefully administering it – "Tdap… whooping cough… omega syndrome II… MMR… varicella…" he paused slightly, hand trembling as he picked up the final plunger, "…and omega syndrome IV." After he placed the final syringe back on the table, he raised his hands. "That's it. We're done."

John gave Dean the nod that simultaneously said _take-care-of-your-brother_ and _pocket-anything-here-that-might-be-useful_ and then gestured to the door. "Thank you for being so understanding, doctor. This has been hard on all of us." He followed the doctor out, keeping him distracted.

It took Dean less than 30 seconds to pop the lock on the room's small supply of antibiotics and painkillers, carefully relocking afterwards it to prevent immediate detection. After a moment's thought, he also grabbed the spray bottle off the table next to Sam, as well as a few rolls of bandages. Then he carefully pulled Sammy's pants on, making sure they didn't hit the brand on his back, and re-wrapped his leather jacket around his shoulders.

He paused for a moment, remembering Sandy's comments.

_Fuck it_ , he thought, unzipping his pants and working himself furiously to an erection, holding the base to keep his knot from forming as he tried to think of the last beta he'd followed back to her apartment. The way she'd moved under him, the way she'd smelled… the way Sammy smelled…

Dean's orgasm erupted out of him in a burst of shame and desperation. Yeah, he wasn't going to think about that. Turning pheromones were just a bitch… and so was Sam, now, and wasn't _that_ just the kicker?

He rubbed his semen across his brother's stomach, his inner alpha almost purring in satisfaction knowing that the doctor couldn't help but smell Dean on Sam now. Then he tucked himself away, wrapped Sam up in the blanket and carried him out to the waiting room.

John had charmed a stack of printed forms out of Lois. The nurse's smile faded slightly when she saw Dean, but she kept on going gamely, pressing a large plastic bag into John's other hand. "Now, your starter kit contains a leash and collar. You won't need to put them on your omega until he regains consciousness, but he'll be expected to wear both in public at all times after that. Mail in your forms within one week to avoid paying a fine."

Dean scowled at the conversation and walked straight out to the Impala. It didn't even occur to him not to slide in the back seat with Sam, stripping off the blanket and jacket so he could cradle him in his arms.

A few minutes later, John slid into the front seat, dropping the bag into the passenger's seat unceremoniously. "How's Sam?"

He looked back at his sons, then sniffed and furrowed his brows when he realized Dean had marked his brother.

"He's asleep." Dean barely registered that he'd pulled Sam closer to him protectively. "Still feverish. Other than that – I don't know. Fuck, Dad, what do we do now?"

John started the ignition. "We go to Bobby's – I already called him, let him know we were on our way." He backed out of the parking spot, "So I'm going to drive, and you're going to tell me – in detail – why exactly you went all alpha on that poor woman back there when you _know_ better than to attract that kind of attention."

The Impala eased forward into gear, rolling into the night. "We've got about three hours ahead of us, so make sure not to leave anything out... including why your brother smells the way he does."

Dean sighed, and held onto Sam tightly. It still felt like he was slipping away.


	8. Bobby's House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby prepares for John and Dean's arrival, but he isn't prepared for the situation that arrives.

The worst thing about John Winchester was his obsessive single-minded pursuit of revenge, Bobby thought, but close second to that was his equally obsessive need to play everything close to his chest.

"The boys got into some trouble," he'd said on the phone a few hours earlier, asking for a place to hole up for a while along with whatever information Bobby could dig up on Minnesota's omega laws. Which probably meant that one of the boys had accidentally mated and/or knocked up some poor O. Excepting for how that didn't make sense, because Dean knew better than well enough not to let that happen, and Sam was going to be heading off to Stanford any day now and wouldn't let anything risk that, no matter how sweet the scent.

That, and John had sounded actually upset, off his game, and John Winchester _never_ sounded like that.

Still, there wasn't any use in worrying over the things you couldn't know. _Don't go looking for trouble,_ his mom had often said, _it'll find you soon enough._

The older beta hunter started a computer search on existing omega laws. While it ran, he went ahead and made up the spare beds – John in one room, the boys sharing the second room the way they always did – and set to making the house look a little less like a geriatric alcoholic widower lived there. He got as far as picking up the empties lying around (and when did there get to be so many of them) before deciding, fuck it, a geriatric alcoholic widower _did_ live there and what the hell would John care about it, anyway?

Which left him time to figure out something halfway edible to feed two grown alphas and one almost-grown one. Most times when John and the boys had showed up before, they'd had nothing more substantial in them than coffee and gas station snacks, and he doubted this would be an exception, even at this late hour. Not that the Winchesters were much different in that regard from any of the other hunters who stopped by periodically; there was a reason he kept half a cow butchered and wrapped up in his deep freeze just in case hungry unexpected guests dropped in. Speaking of which... burgers would do, he decided, and pulled a few packs of ground beef out to thaw.

And by then it was time to sorted through the information the search had deemed useful and print out the top results. It was pretty detailed stuff, he thought as he sat down to read through it – the kind he'd usually give to Sam to pore over whenever he was around. The kid had a real head on him for legalese and government regulations; gonna be a great lawyer someday, Bobby was sure.

* * *

Bobby was dozing over the printouts when the sound of the Impala startled him awake. He grabbed instinctively for his shotgun, panicking for a second when it wasn't right next to him, then remembered that he was expecting guests and relaxed.

Guests. Right.

He stood up, wiped his face in case he'd drooled in his sleep, and scrubbed the sleep seeds out of his eyes. Okay… _Shotgun by the door_ , check. _Holy water in the beer and the coffee_ , check. _Silver knife_ , check. _Devil's trap under the rug by the front door_ , check.

There was a thunderous knock from the porch. "Just a goddamn minute," he yelled back, grumbling as he checked the downstairs wards and sills before unlocking the front door.

He pulled out his knife – "All right, you know the drill-" – but broke off at the sight before him: John Winchester, dark circles under his eyes, looking emotionally wrecked, and an equally devastated Dean behind him, holding a figure bundled in a blanket that had to be Sam from the size of it.

John took the knife wordlessly, pressed it across his wrist, then did the same to the back of Dean's hand. But when John went to reach for Sam's hand, Dean actually _growled_ , clutching his burden tightly to him.

The scents reached Bobby a second later, and he reeled back with a new understanding of what had transpired. He sighed, trying to hide his gut reactions to what the youngest Winchester must have been through, and stepped to one side of the door. "Go ahead and take him up to your room, Dean. You get him settled in, I'll get some coffee poured out. There's towels and a bucket in the bathroom if you need to get Sam-"

"Yeah, yeah, I've got this," Dean interrupted, carrying his brother past the older hunter and up the stairs. Bobby got one glimpse of Sam's face – eyes closed, brow furrowed, jaw twisted like he was in pain – and then both boys were out of sight.

The beta watched the young alpha leave with measured eyes, then walked into the kitchen, trusting John to follow. He took his time with his battered old coffee machine, pouring two cups and handing one to John. His eyes flicked back toward the stairs. "Dean holding together okay?"

The older alpha sighed, rubbing a hand over his weary eyes. "'Bout as badly as you'd expect, freaked out and furious. If he wasn't so worried about Sammy, he'd probably have already snuck off to take on that town single-handedly."

Bobby's eyes widened. _"Town?"_

John nodded, grimacing. "Hibbing, Minnesota."

"Hibbing?" Bobby added a shot of whiskey to his coffee, then passed the bottle silently to John to do the same. "I could swear I've got contacts up that way. Thought it was a safe town."

"Same here," John gulped down his coffee, then filled the cup back up with just whiskey. "I don't know what happened – won't for sure until Sam can talk. The sheriff said some nonsense about Sam raging out on the town-"

Bobby snorted.

"I know, tell me about it. It had to be a set-up, and according to a witness there were at least six alphas involved at the start. And I, uh, I counted at least ten alphas there when I, when we…" John's face crumbled. "He was still just a kid, Bobby. Had his whole life ahead of him."

"He still _does_ ," the beta interjected. "He ain't dead yet, so don't go talking that way." Bobby took a sip from his coffee, trying to stay calm. "It ain't the life you planned for him, nor the life he wanted for himself, but don't go writing that kid off like he doesn't exist anymore."

John snarled, making the older beta instinctively sit back. "The Sam you used to know _doesn't_ exist anymore, Bobby. He wakes up, he's not gonna be the same kid and we both know it."

_I think that kid might just surprise you_ , Bobby thought, but he knew better than to say it aloud to a strung-out father in hyper-defensive alpha mode. "Dean feel the same?"

"No clue. Probably. Taking care of Sam is giving him something specific to focus on for the moment, at least."

Bobby snorted. "And how are you holding up, John?"

John looked at Bobby and snorted. "You really have to ask?" He sipped the whiskey and grimaced, then shot it back and squared his shoulders.

Bobby finished his coffee calmly, staring back at the shadows under John's troubled eyes, the obvious tension in his muscles, the haggard expression on his face. "Don't reckon I do."

He piled up the books scattered across the table with one hand, coffee cup in the other, then set his mug gently down and dropped the binder next to it. "Everything I found's in there, so let's go through it and figure out where you three stand."

Bobby took the thawed hamburger patties off the counter, realizing with a sinking feeling that he'd prepared four, but Sam–

The beta turned to the stove, firing up the burner and dropping all four patties on. Someone would eat the fourth.

"So, first things first," he said as he pressed down on each burger with his spatula. "You know Minnesota's a promega state, right? That's gonna be a problem; they've got some of the worst laws still active on the books, and a similarly terrible human rights record as far omega treatment goes. There's a good chance they'll try to follow up on Sam – I'd say 75% likely out of the starting gate, and 100% if you made any enemies in that town – and make sure you're enforcing all the rules."

Bobby heard a page turn behind him as John kept looking through the research. "I know you fly under the radar, but they really, _really_ like making sure all their omegas are tagged and bagged. You ditch any collar that clinic might have given you?"

John nodded, setting his cup down in the newly cleared space. "The minute we left. Leash, too. Figured they'd both be chipped."

The beta relaxed minutely. "They usually are, so good call. Now, were you present and paying attention for the whole examination?"

John snorted. "Almost all of it. Dean kind of took… offense… at the check-in process and interrupted everything." Bobby glanced behind him – from the look on John's face, there was more to the story than that. He'd get it out of him later on. "Just as well he did, they were going to want to check Sam in, but everything did get a little crazy there for a bit."

"Okay," Bobby said, flipping the burgers over. "The doctor might have slipped in a second tracker if he thought you were a flight risk."

John thought of the vaccination shots and frowned. "It's possible."

"Well, we can't try to dig it out without knowing if it's actually there." Bobby pressed down on one of the burgers, testing its doneness. "I'll get Frank on the line, see if he can swing by this month with his scanner. We've got a little leeway here, they probably won't go looking for you for a few weeks."

He looked thoughtfully down at the burgers as John peered over the information behind him. "If they _do_ track you, you've got two main headaches: claiming and retraining. Most promega states have a two-month grace period on retraining; Minnesota's got six weeks. Sam'll have to be able to stand up to the behavioral tests. If he fails them, they could force him into a rehabilitation center for retraining, and that usually ends with an auction or, if you're in Wyoming, alpha reassignment by lottery."

They needed a few more minutes, Bobby decided, flipping them once again. "Now, you could try to just run and keep ahead of them, but I don't think – it's a bad bet. You'd be taking a big chance taking Sam into any town if he's still acting like he thinks he's an alpha. Best case scenario he ends up in the stocks, worst case you're right back looking at forced rehab and rehoming. And even if you keep him out of sight, it just takes one nosy hotel manager and… I honestly think you'd be better off letting Minnesota stamp him and have it done with."

Silence reigned for a few minutes, interrupted only by the sizzling of the burgers, as each man did their best not to think about Sam on a leash, Sam sitting at some alpha's feet… Sam dressed and abused the way they'd both seen omegas in the past. John's mind inevitably tracked back to that omega who'd helped them back in Hibbing, chained up like a dog. To _Sam_ , chained up like that.

Bobby flipped the burgers onto a platter. "Now, claiming's trickier. You planning on you or Dean doing that?" He wasn't prepared for John's immediate reaction; the alpha recoiled back from the table, knocking his chair to the floor as he stood up, looming over the beta.

"What the _fuck_ , Bobby?" John yelled. Bobby took an instinctive step back as fear-tinged anger emanated off of the man in front of him. "He's my _son_. Dean's _brother_. That's just – it's insane. It's _sick_." He thumped his first down on the table, bumping his cup over in the process. " _You're_ sick just for-"

Bobby caught the cup as it rolled toward the table edge and righted it, _thunking_ it back down on the table. He steeled his will and loomed right back at John. "It's not sick or insane and you know it. If Sam'd originally presented as omega, it'd seem perfectly viable. Hell, one of you might have acted on it already. It just _feels_ wrong to you right now because you're still thinking of Sam as an alpha." He slammed a plate down on the table, the burger bouncing from the force. "Now sit the fuck down and eat your burger, and talk to me like I ain't the enemy, 'cause I ain't."

There was a thumping sound of footsteps from upstairs as John looked away. "I-I couldn't, Bobby. Maybe it's not insane, but it feels sick to me, sick and wrong. And even if I didn't, after Mary…"

"I'm not saying it's gonna come to that, John." The older man ran his hand through his scruffy grey hair. "If we're lucky those assholes will know enough to leave you be. But Minnesota's got first claim rights, which means that the family gets first dibs on a new omega. But if no one in the immediate family steps up and mates them, then any alpha present at the turning – it's down there on that page, they're the so-called 'alphas of origination' – can ask for claiming rights. If more than one of them puts out a claim, then the omega goes to auction."

John dropped the paper like it was poison. "Jesus wept."

Dean slammed into the kitchen in a cloud of worry and adrenaline, eyes wide. "I heard shouting. What's wrong?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Nothing that weren't wrong when you got here, idjit. Now sit down and get some food in you." He dropped a second plate on the table.

Dean shook his head, already turning to leave. "I better get back upstairs. Sam-"

"-isn't going to wake for at least a few more hours," John interrupted, "so sit down and eat something before you pass out and aren't good to anyone."

Dean looked back longingly at the stairs, then back at the burger.

"Sit," Bobby said. "Eat."

_"Now,"_ John added.

Dean sat down sullenly and began to wolf the burger down as quickly as possible. Before he was finished, Bobby dropped the fourth one on his plate, ignoring Dean's look of betrayal as he did so.

John looked at his son. "I need your head back in the game, Dean," he said measuredly. "Sam's fine for the moment, but we still have things to take care of. When you're done here, I want you to check the property's perimeter. Make sure all the protections are in order, too, and then check out the Impala so she's ready in case of trouble." He could see the moment Dean's brain switched over into tactical mode.

"I'm on it, sir." He paused, clearly trying to stem the words that came tumbling out next in one big breath. _"You'll-keep-Sammy-safe-while-I'm-out-right?"_

John nodded. He was safe now, for whatever that was worth. It wasn't like they hadn't both already failed at that when it was most important.

With John's assurance, Dean pivoted sharply and headed for the door, reaching to make sure his gun was still safe against his back with one hand and grabbing his jacket with the other.

Bobby waited until the front door clicked shut, then coughed. "Bit overprotective, there?"

"Turning pheromones," John supplied awkwardly.

"Ah," the beta said, keeping his eyes firmly on his burger.

"Should clear out some while he's outside," John added.

"Yep." Bobby said, looking down at his plate. "'Nother burger?"

"Sure." Once the beta's back was to him, John added, "By the way, we already know he's gotta be marked until he can be claimed, probably a couple times a week. Dean's… he's, uh, he's on top of that. Taking care of it, I mean. It's covered."

Marked. That meant…

"Turning pheromones?" Bobby asked.

"Turning pheromones," John agreed weakly.

Well, at least getting Dean to claim Sam wouldn't be a problem, Bobby thought. If it came to that. It might not. It wasn't like Winchester luck regularly ran from bad to worse or anything.


	9. Waking Up to a Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wakes up and everything is okay, until it isn't, and then nothing is okay. (Warning: This section has rape flashbacks and some physical gore, and might be triggering. Proceed with caution.)

Sam woke for the first time about three hours later. No one was around to see it – John was sleeping in his own room down the hall, and Dean had been banished downstairs under protest to let the rest of Sam's pheromones dissipate out of his system – and Sam was already unconscious again by the time Bobby noticed something was wrong.

Best guess, the boy had woken up all disoriented and immediately retched over the side of the bed, then passed out again from the strain to his system. From everything Bobby had read, it was a pretty common reaction both to being turned and to the damned horse tranqs they'd shot the kid up with. Neither was exactly easy on the body. Besides, it wasn't the first time Bobby'd cleaned up after one of the Winchesters, and it wasn't like Sam had actually had much in his stomach to throw up in the first place, so the beta simply shrugged and mopped up the mess.

Afterwards, he wiped Sam clean with a damp cloth, wincing at the silver earrings when he brushed the hair out of his face. His hair felt softer somehow, even though he knew that was just his imagination. What wasn't his imagination was the softer set to the boy's jaw, and the fact that almost twenty-four hours later there was no sign of stubble even trying to form. Combined with the jewelry, his faced looked paradoxically more virginal and more sexual at the same time.

Virginal… Sam had never made friends easily, hadn't seen the point in a lifestyle that was constantly on the move. Where Dean spent his free time trying to prove his knot was bigger than anyone else's, Sam hadn't been interested in obvious displays of power or manhood. For all Bobby knew, Sam might've still _been_ a virgin before yesterday. Which meant…

The beta knew the hunters' mantra backwards and forwards – _we hunt monsters, not people_ – but damned if some folks didn't merit hunting. Going up against a whole pack of alphas by himself was suicide, but there _were_ other hunters in that area – he couldn't remember them but Rufus undoubtedly could find out…

Realistically, it was probably better to give Ellen a call over to the Roadhouse… for the moment, anyway. He'd heard Ellen had a kid there who was some kind of computer genius, could make a man's life a living hell six ways from Sunday with just a couple of keystrokes. Although he was pretty sure Dean and John weren't ruling some good old-fashioned frontier justice out of their options just yet. Especially Dean.

Sam looked so _young_ lying there. Just six months ago, he'd been joking about Bobby needing to buy a bigger mattress before his feet started hanging off the edge. No point now, he supposed, although fuck it, maybe he should anyway. Omegas were supposed to have sharper senses of smell and that mattress was ratty as hell anyway… not really fit for an omega's more delicate sensibilities.

He snorted at his thoughts. This was _Sam_ , the kid who never gave a damn where he fell asleep as long as it had a reading lamp nearby. Just because he was no longer an alpha, he wasn't going to change that much… was he?

Still shaking his head over his foolishness, he went downstairs. Dean was still passed out on the couch closest to the stairs, scowling even in his sleep. He was pretty sure the young alpha would be out for a good long while; Bobby'd seen John drop a sleeping pill in his coffee after the two had nearly gotten into a shouting match over his obsessive need to stay near Sam.

Speaking of coffee, Bobby poured himself another the last of what was by now closer to coffee sludge, and set the machine to brewing up a new pot to keep him company until Sam woke up again. He hugged a book on Egyptian mythology with the arm holding his coffee and picked up the now-clean bucket with his free hand, then headed back toward Sam's room to keep watch.

Halfway up the stairs, a miserable groan alerted him to the fact that the pail would probably be needed sooner rather than later. He set the coffee and the book down on the stairs and dashed in just as Sam reeled unstably toward the edge of the bed.

"It's okay, kid," Bobby murmured, one hand steadying Sam's shoulder, the other ready with the bucket. "I got you. It's gonna be okay."

* * *

Sam woke up groggy, dizzy and muddled. Everything hurt.

It was kind of like the hangover he'd had the day after he'd turned sixteen and Dean had brought home four bottles of whiskey, rum, tequila and vodka to celebrate "being a man," only worse. This felt like the growing pains he'd had when he was eight, magnified by a hundred. Every single bone in his body ached, even ones he didn't know he had.

"Easy there," Bobby said, holding the bucket in front of Sam.

"…Bobby?" Sam squinted at him, trying to get his eyes to focus properly. "'s Dean? 'n dad?"

"They're fine, just resting," Bobby replied. "Here, if you're gonna hurl, take this-" he shoved the pail at him "-instead'a making another mess outta my floor." He waited until Sam had a firm grip on the bucket.

"Okay?" the boy persisted, looking up at the older hunter anxiously. His eyes looked… lighter? They'd always shifted between brown and green in the light, but now there was a fine yellow-gold ring around the inner edge.

Bobby realized he was staring and glanced away. "Didn't you just hear me say they're both fine?" he grunted exasperatedly as he went to retrieve his coffee. He sipped at it as he returned, grimacing at the taste. "Let's worry about you right now. How do you feel?"

Sam smiled crookedly. "Like I… got hit by a truck." He paused. " _Did_ I get hit by a truck? Can't 'member." His face turned green. "Bobby, I – I don't feel good." He lurched forward, but thankfully the bucket caught what little there was to come up – just stomach juices, from the look of it.

"Not a truck, no," the beta pulled the blanket up around Sam's shoulders, "but you _have_ been through a hell of a lot." He rubbed the youngest Winchester's back awkwardly as the boy coughed.

Sam leaned back, letting Bobby take the bucket and set it next to the bed and mumbling something only half-intelligible.

"-get the dog?" The kid was already tired again. "Tracked it from Koochi-chi-whatsit… Dad, he… shot it? I think? 's hard to r'member, all… fuzzy inside. Black dog. Dad said it was a 'were, but th' prints were wrong." Sam smiled. "Told him. Black dog, not were – proved it. Dean was… bait. Jerk." His eyes touched upon the empty bed across from him and he looked around frantically. "Dean – where? 's he okay?"

Bobby sighed. "He's as fine as he was the last time you asked." He held the back of his hand up to Sam's forehead. "Don't feel like you got much of a fever left, but your brains sure still seem scrambled."

Sam looked down. "Sorry, Bobby. 's just… hard t' think right now."

"Not your fault, kid." He hugged the boy, smelling the confusion rolling off of him. "You've been through a helluva lot in the past 24 hours, and that's not including the massive ketamine hangover you're coming down from."

"Wait–" Sam looked around. "We were– how'd we – how'd I-?"

"Lie back down, Sam. Your brain and body are gonna need a little time to adjust to you being awake before you try getting' vertical again."

"'kay," Sam nodded numbly, letting his head drop back on the pillow.

"Your daddy and brother brought you here," Bobby took the cloth he'd used earlier and wiped down Sam's brow. "You're gonna feel pretty weak 'n wobbly for a while, I imagine. Probably have some holes in your memory, stuff you can't recall – ketamine can do that, they say."

"Nothing… nothing feels right." The youngest Winchester looked bewildered. "Everything feels wrong."

"'s okay, son. We pretty much expected that." He patted Sam's shoulder. "Frankly, you're allowed to feel as crappy as you want, for as long as it takes to not feel that way. None of you are taking off anytime soon."

"What about Kentucky?" Sam grabbed at Bobby's wrist, scowling when his fingers didn't seem to grip firmly. "Dad said–"

"Your dad called in Joshua and Travis. They were out that way, said they could handle it.."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "…Hidin' somethin'…" he grumbled. "Y-you said ketamine… 's an anesthetic. What's happen'd t' me?"

The older man sighed. "Tell ya what, kid. Give me your rank-and-file, prove your brains are intact, and then I'll get you some water and we'll see if we can piece together what you don't remember."

"Deal." Sam smiled faintly. "Sam Winchester. 18. Born 'n Lawrence, Kansas, May second. Brother Dean, father John." He looked over at Bobby, who just waited expectantly. "Fine. Salt 'n iron work 'gainst ghosts. Silver for wolves 'n shifters. Fire for wendigo. And nothin' for Bigfoot, 'cause he's not real."

"Okay, so you're awake enough to be a _smartass_. That's good," Bobby nodded. "I'll get you that water. You hungry?"

Sam shook his head, then groaned. "Ugh. This sucks."

"I'll take that as a no," the beta said. "Be right back."

* * *

Sam blinked his eyes and Bobby was back in the doorway with the water.

"Have a good nap?"

Sam looked at him blankly.

"You passed back out on me when I went to get this." The beta handed the water to Sam. "Drink up, kid."

_(drink up)_

Thankfully, Bobby hadn't pulled his hand back very far when Sam nearly fumbled the glass entirely, liquid spilling down onto the sheets. It was like he was having to relearn how to use his muscles from the ground up, like he was trying to move them through water. He swallowed carefully, emptying the glass steadily until–

_(drink up, kid)_

He all but pushed the glass back into Bobby's hand. "'m not thirsty."

The beta looked at him measuringly, but said nothing. He tried to figure out what Bobby was looking for in him, what he was trying to figure out.

_(got a long evening ahead)_

When Sam pulled his hand back, he saw the ridges of nearly healed scar tissue across his fingers and palm. When did–?

_(you have no idea it's like heaven)_

"Hand giving you pain?" Bobby asked cautiously. "It should be healed by now, but there might be some phantom aches. I can get you some Tylenol or-"

His heart was pounding suddenly, why was it pounding?

"Bobby, tell me what happened." Christ, were there _tears_ in his eyes? Was he crying? He looked down, guarding his tears from view. "Nothing feels right. Everything _aches_. I can't smell right, 's all _muted_. I can't-can't smell _me_." His head was throbbing now. "What aren't you _telling_ me?"

"Sam," the older hunter asked hesitantly. "How much… what exactly _do_ you remember from yesterday? D'you remember fighting with your dad?"

_(gotta keep your strength up)_

"He… we were supposed t' leave for a wendigo hunt in Kentucky. Woulda taken us – I couldn't have gotten to Stanford on time. I- I asked him t' hold off… just a day or two. Hadn't told him or Dean about college yet. I know you told me I had to – I was just still trying to figure out _how_." Sam suddenly felt embarrassed. He couldn't meet Bobby's eyes, looked away instead. "So we fought, he told me I was selfish and I told him he wanted soldiers, not sons, and then he put his foot down and I put my fist up… and then I left. Walked it off, like Jim always said. _'Feet not fists.'_ "

_(ain't stopping for nothing)_

Bobby's face was carefully neutral. "Okay, try to work forward from there. Let the memories come to you."

Sam tried to concentrate through the blood roaring in his ears. "I got turned around – in the woods, wasn't paying attention, ended up in town instead of back at the, the – the motel." He caught himself reflexively curling his fingers into a fist, over and over again. Forced them to lie flat, to stay _still_ , just like–

"R-ran into a bunch of creeps, 'n then… then…"

His back hurt, he realized, _hurt_ like something had burrowed its way under the skin, hurt like _fire_ and _iron_ and ( _let's see how you smile when I shove this poker right up yer–)_

Sam remembered.

* * *

Bobby could tell the exact moment when Sam's memories returned. All the blood left his face as he blanched almost white. His eyes widened, mouth forming a round "O" of surprise, and a look of abject horror and sorrow crossed his face.

Then he leaned over and dry-heaved convulsively into the bucket. When Bobby reached out to steady him, Sam flinched away, almost falling off the other side of the bed as he pulled the sheets around him.

"I don't… I can't-" He slid unsteadily off the other side of the bed. "Don't touch me." Backed away. "Oh god." He fell to the floor, hyperventilating, then pulled himself back up to his feet, the sheets pooling at his ankles.

Even though Dean had dressed Sam in boxers – Dean's boxers – Bobby still turned his head away from Sam politely, waiting until he'd pulled the sheets back around his waist.

"You okay, kid?" he asked, knowing the answer was anything but. "Things coming back to you?"

"Not everything." The omega shuddered. "Not entirely. But enough."

* * *

Getting Bobby to leave him alone wasn't easy. Sam was pretty sure he could read hurt in the beta's eyes when he asked for some privacy, but once he'd proved that he could stand without falling on his face (easier to do once he realized his muscles really were weaker were newer weren't his), the older man had acquiesced.

Even so, it took him a few minutes before he had the courage to square his shoulders, drop the sheet, and walk into the bathroom. And then he stood there staring at the familiar stranger in front of him.

_Omega_. It wasn't a death sentence. He'd need to retrain his reactions. Probably relearn shooting, too, switch out a few grips. A few months to get the muscles back, maybe more. Say six months to get back into fighting shape.

It wasn't so bad. He looked at himself in the mirror, turned sideways slightly. Just different. Not too much different from how he'd looked a few years ago, really. Shorter. Thinner. Less muscular. Less hairy.

_(too pretty to be an alpha)_

Less everything.

_Take the boxers off_ , Sam thought, willing his hands to work. _Take the boxers off. You need to_ see.

He left them on.

A shower – he should take a shower. Get clean. He would have been sweating and feverish for hours, from what he remembered about the turning process. And before that… He needed to get the germs off his skin. Get the sweat and the smell and the dead skin cells and hairs and who knows what else got left behind _(man's only got one good knot in 'im a day)_ off of him.

Oh god. _Their sperm had been in him,_ was _in him, in his cells even, changing them into something else._

Hot water. Hot water would help.

Metal glinted as he swung his head back toward the sink, and he stared at his face. Pushed the hair back from his right ear.

They'd tagged him, like a dog. Like a bitch.

_(good bitch)_

He didn't remember that. Or maybe he did. There was a huge blurry blank space between the fight in town and coming to, being…

_(you'll make a great bitch)_

being…

_(still nice and tight, won't be that way for long)_

He pushed the hair back from his other ear, saw the multiple rings, wondered why he hadn't noticed how they stung his skin. But the silver was just a tiny little ache in a field of bigger aches, it wasn't that much of a surprise.

_Take the boxers off_.

He got in the shower instead. The water felt good, scalding against his skin but he didn't care. He imagined it boiling away the impurities, the dead skin their touch had left behind. It set his back on fire where it touched the _(brand makes 'em contract around ya)_ place where the iron had been, but the pain was good. Centering. Focusing.

He could get through this. He was tougher than this. He'd faced down death since he was eight and found the monsters in the dark were real. This was, this was just another change, this was something he could handle, it wasn't _his_ body, not anymore, but he could, he could, he could handle this. It wasn't that different from the day he'd woken up to find that he'd popped his knot and his body started changing. Just another change.

_His knot…_

He could get past this. Just a few more days and then he could be at Stanford where he'd never have to see the look of disappointment in John's eyes that he knew he'd see. The disappointment that his son hadn't been good enough, hadn't been _strong_ enough–

_Take your boxers off, Sam. You know you need to, need to see what they really did to you, see what you've become what a bitch you've become what a_ (good bitch).

He was no one's bitch.

The water wasn't hot. Needed to be hotter. Needed to be – He caught another glint of metal from the shaving mirror Bobby kept in the shower.

The earring, he thought. Start with the earring, take back what they took.

He took the mirror off its hook, and the straight razor next to it. Sat down in the tub, back screaming as he leaned against the porcelain, propped the mirror between his knees _(keep 'em open, bitch)_ and tried to pull out the right earring.

It didn't budge. He looked closer in the mirror, saw the skin pucker and twist with the metal _(practically have to cut 'em off, and even when you do, the holes don't heal up)_ and everyone knew what the joke was there, that bitches were _supposed_ to have holes, that was the whole point of a bitch, after all, just a hole to fill and fuck and–

_(good bitch)_

He picked up the straight razor, tried to pry the edge of the metal clean from the skin, watched in the shaving mirror as the blood bubbled up and was immediately washed away.

Fragments of details were coming back to him now. He remembered–

_(-remembered pain, pain and humiliation and the sheriff laughing and the feel of that knot shoving into him, into his ass, violating him and ripping away everything that he was, everything he could be, forcing something else to grow in its place-)_

He ran the blade around the earring. More blood, washed away down the drain. He barely noticed the pain from the hot water and his back, mesmerized by this new pain, the pain _he_ was causing, that _he_ was in control of.

_(-remembered the strangely guilty look from a round-faced beta right before he shoved his cock down Sam's throat, like he knew him, but that couldn't be possible, you'd never do something like that to someone you knew, never be that cruel, that-)_

He choked, bile rising into his throat, but forced it back down. Razor. Ear. Earring. _(the holes don't heal up)_

He had a job to do.

_(-remembered the endless litany of insults and humiliation and grunts and thrusts and-)_

He wasn't just a hole, wouldn't be what they wanted to turn him into, what they _had_ turned him into. He could cut it out, hole and all, excise it from his body. If his body had to be violated, mutilated, marked, he could make it be on his terms. He was no one's fucking good–

_(-good bitch, that's right take it, gonna knot you so good, gonna teach you your place boy, gonna fill you up make you a fuckin' knot slut-)_

The razor pulled up, separating the soft flesh of the lobe.

_(-turn you, breed you, make you the town bitch, gonna have to change your name to Schwinn after how hard I'm gonna ride you, gonna fuck the alpha right out of you, fuck it right the fuck out of you-)_

Funny how the skin parted before the blade but clung to the ring, he thought absently, sawing down around the other side. The blood and the water made his grip slippery, but the ring made a perfect handhold and wasn't that a bitch.

_(-just a bitch just a hole just an O, that's right, O is for omega, O is for hole and that's all you are now, just a hole, just an O, just a-)_

There was a pounding at the door and the water wasn't hot anymore and he was almost done, almost through the lobe and he could hear someone screaming his name. And then the ring was out and his ear lobe was ragged and bleeding and that was _a part of his ear in his hand, foreign matter, still clinging to the ring like the fucking traitor it was_ but at least there was no goddamn hole anymore.

The pounding turned to splintering and all of a sudden Dean was there, Bobby behind him. And Dean was gripping his arm holding the razor, murmuring, "Sammy no, no, I've got you, it's okay." And Bobby was turning off the water cursing himself for leaving Sam alone and gently prying the razor out of his hands – "Jesus, kid, don't mutilate yourself like that, just give them a week and we can take them out intact."

_Intact_. That was a fucking joke. He was never going to be _intact_ again.

And Dean just fucking reached into the tub and picked Sam up, like he used to back when he was little, and cradled him to his chest, muttering nonsense like "it's going to be okay" and "so sorry, Sammy" and "keep you safe." Which was nonsense, because it was never going to be okay, and he was never going to be safe, and there was nothing for Dean to be sorry about.

_Sam_ was the one who should be sorry, who hadn't been good enough to stay an alpha. _Sam_ was the one who had left, wandered stupidly into danger like some idiot civilian. _Sam_ who hadn't been aware enough of his surroundings, who hadn't smelled the addition of new alphas, who had let himself be caught off-guard. _Sam_ who had let himself be fucked _(rape, call it rape, it's what it is, being raped, being turned)_ into submission. _Sam_ who remembered that he had come from it by the end of it, come helplessly just from being knotted, come like the bitch they'd turned him into.

_Sam_ who was worthless.

And Dean was still holding him, cradling him, rocking him back and forth. He held him the whole time while Bobby got a towel and dried him off, then bandaged his ear.

Sam let Dean slide his sodden boxers off _(don't look don't look don't look down and nothing will be different)_ and slide on new ones (Dean's second-favorite pair, rumpled and faded but still clean). Let Dean lift him again and settle them both into the other bed, Dean's bed, and hug him like he was still worth something. Let Dean tell him he loved him, that they would get past this, that things would get better.

Sam knew it was all lies, but it made Dean feel better, he could smell it, so he let the lies stand. He knew he should be freaking out, knew he shouldn't want anyone to touch him, but it was _Dean_ and he smelled like home and strength and love.

Dean loved him because he thought Sam was loyal, a good brother, a good son. He didn't know what Sam had been planning, didn't know about Stanford, the ultimate betrayal. He didn't know about Hibbing, didn't know how _weak_ Sam had been.

Sam didn't deserve any of Dean's love, but he was just so _tired_. Tired and selfish. Once Dean knew everything, Sam would lose that love, lose it like he'd lost everything else, but he had it now, and he was too selfish not to take it.

He burrowed his nose into Dean's neck and let the sound of Dean's heartbeat lull him to sleep like it had when he was four.


	10. Crash Course in Parenting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up to the uncomfortable experience of being redundant in a crisis, and goes to take care of provisions before Sam wakes up again, where he gets advice from an unexpected source. Bobby begins the task of tracking down who he knows in Hibbing.

John woke up to the uncomfortable experience of being redundant in a crisis.

When Sam had come to hours before anyone had expected, it had been Bobby who was there to help the new omega realize what had happened. When Sam had later broken down in the shower, it was Dean – downstairs, drugged on sleeping pills – who had somehow nonetheless smelled Sam's distress and sprung into action.

And where had John been through all this? Just down the hall. _Sleeping._

John the combat vet, John the vigilant father, John the hardened hunter – John had stayed blissfully asleep and ignorant until Dean's footsteps had thundered past. Then he'd rolled out of bed instantly awake, Taurus in hand, but the crisis was over. By the time he'd gotten to Sam's door, Dean was helping Sam into a new pair of boxers while Bobby picked up bloodied bandages from the bathroom.

John watched as Dean got Sam situated in bed, feet elevated, warmed by the blanket above him and Dean's own body below him. The young omega didn't seem aware of his father's eyes on him at all. His face was pale, his eyes unfocused – shock and trauma; John'd seen enough of that overseas to recognize it immediately.

Dean, on the other hand, was entirely too aware of John, meeting his gaze almost challengingly over his brother's head. There was no rebuke in his eyes, no criticism for making him sleep downstairs, but there was also defiance. He could read it silently in his older son's narrowed eyes and the set of his jaw: _I'm staying – going to make something of it?_ John shook his head – one look at Sam and it was clear the omega was already calmer for having an alpha nearby. Dean had the situation in hand.

He wasn't needed here. So he did the only logical thing any father would do in that situation – he went downstairs, made breakfast, and brooded. A lot.

John was pushing the remnants of his eggs and toast around the plate and nursing a second cup of coffee when Bobby came downstairs. He was restless and agitated, full of adrenaline with no outlet for it, and if he was honest, kind of spoiling for a fight.

"Not the best wake up call, was it," the beta said quietly, helping himself to some of the eggs on the stove. "Kid's okay, though, more or less… given the situation, anyway."

"Thanks for the heads-up," John said bitterly. "Good to know. Thanks for keeping me updated. It's not like I'm his _father_ or anyone who should have been woken up or anything."

Bobby dropped the plate down on the table with a thunk and then sat down. "It wasn't like that and you know it, John. I just happened to be there when he came to, what was I gonna do, ignore him? _Not_ talk to him?"

John snarled. "You were _supposed_ to come get me." He shoved his plate away like it had offended him, the uneaten toast crust skittering off the plate and across the table.

Bobby snorted. "Yeah, because the thing Sam was really gonna want when he woke up omega was a touchy-feely discussion with his father about how he got himself turned." He shoveled the eggs into his mouth like they'd offended him personally.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better about it?" John said heatedly. "He's _my_ son! That was _my_ call to make!"

Bobby's brow furrowed. "Stop being a knothead! You ever think maybe it was easier talking about it to someone he hasn't been trying to be like all his life, someone he's not going to feel like he let down?" The beta looked tired, like he had gotten woken up in the middle of the night and been up ever since. John could see that, see the exhaustion and worry creased into his face, but his mouth was running on autopilot.

"Well, good job, Bobby. Thank god for you." John stood up, turned away from the older hunter, hands clenched into fists. "If _I'd_ been up there, who _knows_ what would have happened? Maybe he would have gotten so upset he ended up _mutilating_ himself or something. Except oh, right – _he fucking did_!"

"Fuck you, John." Bobby stood up, knocking his chair back. He kept his voice steady, spitting the words out with controlled precision. "I made the best call I could at the time. You're stressed out and looking for a target to take your anger out on. That's fine by me – we can step outside right now. I will _happily_ go a round or three to beat some manners back into your skull."

The older hunter stood there, practically vibrating with tension as he continued. "Butt for god's sake, if you gotta do this here and now, let's take it outdoors because the _last_ thing your boy needs to hear or smell is you picking fights for no good reason." Bobby scowled at him, pursing his lips. "Your call, John." He waited for the Winchester's next move.

Was _that_ what he was doing? John thought, surprised. Picking a fight for no reason? It was, wasn't it. He exhaled heavily, adrenaline leaving as quickly as it had arrived. "I'm sorry, Bobby." He relaxed his hands, let them hang limply by his sides as he turned around. "You were right. I was out of line."

Bobby stood there, meeting John's eyes. After a few moments, he nodded. "All right then." He sat down and pulled his plate closer, picking the fork up once again. "So... when I'm done here, I'm gonna clear out the obvious knives and razors from upstairs – Dean's got things under control, but there's no reason to go asking for trouble. After that, I'll check the wards and protections, and then I'm gonna try to catch up on some of the sleep I missed from last night."

He picked up their plates and silverware and dropped them gently into the sink. "And while I'm doing that, _you're_ going to go into town and pick up the supplies you're gonna need for Sam, because if the situation's got you this worked up already, there ain't no _way_ you'll be able to make yourself leave once he wakes up again. Get some groceries while you're at it, beer and coffee and anything else you can think of that we might want so you and your boy don't eat me out of house and home."

JJohn bit down on the instinctive protest that welled up, and thought about what Bobby said. Then he smiled wryly. "I hate to admit it, but that's a good idea."

He glanced toward the stairs, then stood up and grabbed his coat. "Between the two of us, I'm dreading this more'n any hunt I've ever been on," he sighed as he shrugged the jacket on. "Feel like we're dead center in the eye of the storm…" His gaze wandered back toward the stairs reluctantly. "You know… on second thought… maybe I _should_ stick around, just in case Sam needs me..."

Bobby snorted. "Get out before I throw you out."

The alpha was halfway to his car when Bobby leaned out the front door and yelled. "And buy some nose plugs for both'a you knotheads. If I have to deal with any more of you and Dean and your hopped-up-on-pheromones posturing, someone's gonna get shot!"

* * *

John's head swam as he waded through the Sioux Falls library's omega advice section. It wasn't big, just a little more than one shelf, so he'd basically just carried all of the books over to a nearby table and dumped them out, intending to quickly flip through them and pick the best ones. But an hour later, he hadn't even gotten through half and only eliminated two, and he was just as uncertain as he'd been when he'd started, if not more so. He'd dropped his qualifications from "best" to "not directly insulting to the reader's intelligence," and he was beginning to wonder whether even that revised standard was setting the bar too high.

"New omega, huh?" The perky alto voice made him jump as it cut through the quiet of the library. Its owner, an attractive beta woman around John's age with shoulder-length brown hair and a wide grin, patted his arm sympathetically. Her fingernails were neat and cut short, he noted absently, good for fighting or pulling a trigger.

She smelled faintly of gunpowder, he observed with surprise, flaring his nostrils to breathe in more. Gunpowder, donuts, engine oil and coffee, most of it coming from her work boots. "That obvious, _officer_?"

"Just Jody, please, I'm off duty." She smiled, tilting her head at the 20 or so books spread out in front of him. "Most folks just read one or two books at a time." At his rueful look, she continued, "Nothing to be ashamed of. Every parent's got to start somewhere."

"John," he introduced himself as he pushed the books into a more manageable pile. A few errant books tried to topple from the stack, but he caught them before they could slide off the table.

He checked out her left hand, spotted the simple gold ring. "You sound pretty knowledgeable. Got one of your own at home?"

Her smile dropped a little, and sorrow drifted softly off her. "No… my boy died before he was old enough to present. Always thought he might, though – had that look about him, you know? I wouldn't have minded if he did." She shook her head wistfully, hair falling into her brown eyes, then took a breath. "But I've gotten a lot of experience helping other parents through their kids' puberty. What about yours… boy or girl? How old?"

John looked down the rows of books to avoid the pity he knew he'd see in her face when he answered, "He just turned eighteen a couple months ago."

Even turned away, he could smell the moment she understood what he hadn't said. Alphas and omegas generally presented sometime between 11 and 15 years of age, never later than 16. There was only way any boy became an omega at eighteen.

"I'm so sorry." She pulled up a chair and straddled it, unzipping her brown leather jacket and dropping it onto the floor next to her. "Your boy should never have had to go through that, and it's good that you're trying to learn how to help him. He'll need it. For what it's worth, I've dealt with my share of these kinds of cases, too. It never gets easier, but it _will_ get better. Just takes time."

Normally the flash of skin he caught from her grey scoop-necked undershirt would have at least warranted a sideways glance, but now John only smiled wanly. "Good to hear." He pulled off his hunting cap and ran his fingers through his greying hair. "It's all just– it only– I've only ever had alpha boys before. I have no idea how to _have_ an omega son. And it, everything just happened yesterday."

Jody looked at him quizzically, politely ignoring the distress he hadn't been able to tamp down in time. "Yesterday? You know, you've got a week to get all the papers filed and sorted. This can wait. If your family needs you at home–"

He shook his head. "I was kicked out of the house this morning and ordered to go take care of this. And they weren't wrong – I'd rather be home, but I'd just be pacing the floor there with nothing to do and no way to help. I can't just sit around on my hands. I need something I _can_ do. I need a direction and a plan." He waved at the books in frustration, "But I can't even figure out where to _start_."

"Well, when you _do_ fill out the paperwork, come down to my station and we can walk you through it. If I'm not there, just tell 'em Sheriff Mills sent you." She gestured at the pile. "In the meantime… I could give you a hand, if you'd like?"

The alpha acquiesced gratefully. "Please." He pushed his chair to one side so she could scootch her chair in next to him.

"Okay, welcome to Sheriff Mills' famous crash course in weeding through crap. And believe me, 90% of what they publish on omegas is _crap_."

The sturdy beta quickly stacked the books onto their sides so she could study their spines. She scanned through the titles, then cocked her head and looked at him searchingly. "Okay, first things first. I've been operating under the assumption that you're not promega, but…"

John thought of the sheriff's cruel grin. "No," he scowled, "I'm not."

She shook her head approvingly. "Good. Didn't think so. And that means…" she yanked _Promega or Omega? How the New Progressiveness is Ruining Traditional Claiming_ and _The Promega Journey: Guiding Your Teen's Transition_ out of the stack. "We can start by eliminating these right away." She shoved them far to one side of the table as if they were contagious.

"Next up, check the publisher's information on the inside. You don't want anything published more than five years ago, and that goes for reprints if they aren't revised." She slid _The Obedient Omega_ , _The Rules (Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing Your Alpha's Heart)_ , _The Good Omega's Guide_ and _Training Your Omega the Woodhouse Way_ to the side, tapping the cover of the last as she did – "As a side note, I generally discourage anything that's basically a repurposed dog training guide with a few words replaced."

She shifted _Unleashed by the Leash: The Enlightened Omega's Handbook for Happiness_ to the discards pile similarly dismissively: "Published in Oregon. You'd think they'd be pretty progressive, but outside of Portland, they're every bit as backwater as Montana or Wyoming. Enlightened, my ass."

_How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Alpha_ and _Alpha and Omega: The Eternal Cycle_ followed right after _Unleashed._ "Texas publishes a lot of books. More than half are promega and the other half might as well be. Stick to New York and Boston publishers. Their books have the best shot at being balanced and sane."

Jody held up two of titles the John had spent the longest time looking at, _Life Is Bitchin' When You're a Bitch_ and _I Wish We All Could Be California Omegas_. "This is a little tricky, but stay with me. I know those two books sound great, and they are – California is absolutely the most progressive state when it comes to omega rights. But… only in the areas around Los Angeles and San Francisco. The rest of the state's full of rich conservative alphas who are every bit as bad as Texas."

She placed the books down gently into the rejected stack. "So no matter how much you _want_ to buy books from California publishers for your omega, if you do you'll be limiting his ability to interact in society to a handful of progressive cities and severely handicapping his ability to function anywhere else. And even if he _does_ end up living in one of those cities down the road, he'll need to know how to survive elsewhere."

John was impressed – only eleven books were left. In less than three minutes Jody had efficiently cut his stack in half.

"Now, the content itself. Always check the index and make sure it's got an up-to-date section on omega rights." She eliminated _The Myth of Omega Consent_. "Or–" she lifted _Marital Advice and Workout DVD for the Newly Mated Omega_ and deposited it with the other rejects "–that it has a section on them at all."

John flinched. He hadn't even thought about that.

She smiled. "Hang in there. We're in the home stretch." She turned her attention back to the table. "Now, there's a lot more to being an omega than heats and breeding, but a lot of writers forget that, so make sure those sections take up no more than half the book." _I Love Babies! An Omega's Guide to Life_ , _101 Ways to Please Your Alpha_ and _If You Can't Stand the Heat, You're Doing Something Wrong_ joined the discards. "One-third of the book is better, but beggars can't be choosers."

She looked over the remaining books, then smirked. "And here's your most important lesson for the afternoon – if the title _sounds_ like a bad omega porn novel, it probably _is_ a bad omega porn novel." He flushed as she discarded _Collared by Love_ , _Knotted by Nature_ , _The Story of O(mega)_ and _Fifty Shades of Grey_. "Someone undoubtedly thought it would be funny to misfile these in the wrong section."

Only two books lay before him on the table, _Obedience Vs. Submission: Towards a True Understanding of the Alpha-Omega Duality_ and _Serenity: The Art of Letting Go_. "There you go! Two winners."

John stared at her, speechless.

"I know," she grinned, eyes twinkling. "It's a gift. Tell you what, I'll let you buy me a cup of coffee to thank me. Deal?"

* * *

Bobby locked the door to the panic room he'd started building. It was only half-finished at the moment, waiting on another spare weekend to get finished, but the sturdy steel door had been one of the first things he'd installed, and it would serve as a decent locker for the weapons he'd collected. Not of all them, for sure, but enough of them to make a difference. There was no way to fully safety-proof a hunter's house, and no real point, either – no way he was going to leave himself entirely unprotected, not when he knew what was out there.

Not after Karen.

Still, like he'd told John, no sense inviting trouble, either, least until Sam got his head on a bit straighter. He had weapons squirreled away in places none of the Winchesters knew; he could afford to put away the obvious ones. Sam only had two ears.

Hibbing… something about that place was nagging at him. He picked up his address bookon the way to the living room. It couldn't hurt to do a little digging, see if he couldn't remember who he knew out that way. When John and Dean went back, it'd be good to have some friendlies in town on their side.

Half an hour later, he threw his hands in the air and left a voice mail for Rufus instead. _Got a job coming up, looking for some contractors over in Hibbing. Know any? Keep it on the down low, I don't want competition before I get a bid in._

He settled back in his chair and pulled his blanket up over him to catch some shut-eye. Less than a minute later, he sat bolt upright. "Blue Earth!" He snorted. "I must be going senile."

He picked up his phone and dialed a different number. "Hello, Jim? It's Bob Singer. Remember that little infestation I helped you with a ways back? Got a return favor to ask."

* * *

John's payment of 'coffee' had to wait until the afternoon, as the sheriff stayed with him to help shop for things to make Sam's transition easier. Her advice and insight proved very useful, even though it limited what he could buy to the cash he had on hand. He wasn't about to use one of his illegal credit cards in the company of an officer, off-duty or not.

He hadn't allowed himself the company of an intelligent, attractive woman for quite some time. As they shopped, he found himself opening up as much as he could about his boys and their life. If it weren't for the matter at hand, he might have even enjoyed himself. But every purchase brought a new struggle to understand the situation Sam and he were facing, one that Jody underlined with every decision that had to be made.

*

"What's wrong with the blankets and sheets he's already got?"

"Omegas tend to be really sensitive to touch for a few weeks after turning. Stuff you wouldn't think twice about can feel like sleeping on burlap to them after a little while."

"You don't think he'd feel more comfortable in something that was familiar to him, something he's slept on before?"

"In a couple of days, he won't care whether it's familiar. He'll just care whether he can stand to lie on it for more than an hour at a time."

*

"These are terrible. Why would you want me to buy these?"

"You don't want to waste money on expensive collars right now. Whatever you pick, he's going to hate, so start off with ones you dislike and make sure they're cheap and easily replaceable. Get at least five of each, leashes too. Once he's used to them you can take him shopping for nicer, more permanent ones."

"What about the ones down that way-?"

"Trust me, there's nothing you want there."

"Why not?"

"That's the promega section. It's all metal and chain, designed for submissiveness and helplessness. Makes me shudder just to look at it."

*

"I'd really suggest skipping the omega clothing. Except underwear – he'll want those. O briefs aren't very different from regular boxer-briefs, just softer and more padded in certain areas, designed to absorb moisture and dry quickly. Omega shirts and pants are intentionally very soft and comfortable to wear, but they're also designed to be revealing and, uh, very _easily accessible_. Most have obvious built-in access panels and straps so they don't even have to wear undergarments. And after everything he just went through…"

"If he's going to feel as touch-sensitive as you said, that should outweigh the other concerns. It's not like I wouldn't let him wear underwear underneath them."

"Maybe, but clothing is kind of like personal armor. It helps define who we are. He'll be struggling with that already. And when he undergoes his adjustment trials in a few weeks, he won't be judged on his clothes, so you've got some leeway–"

"It seems to me more like he might as well just bite the bullet and get it all over with at once. He's going to have to get used to what he is now."

"It's not the _what_ that'll be the problem, it's the _who_."

"He's an omega now. He's going to have to learn that there's no shame in dressing the part."

"I'm sure there isn't from where you're standing. …Look, if you're dead set on this, just buy _one_ outfit now and wait until he willingly picks it up and wears it. Then you can take him shopping for more, and let _him_ pick them out. At the worst, you'll spread your cash overlay out and get stuff he'll actually wear."

*

"They're called hygiene pads, John. Trust me. He'll want these. You don't need to know anything more about them if you don't want to. He can read, right? So you're good. Just put them in the cart."

*

"…You want _these_ omega vitamins, the ones in the blue label. Only go for the blue label, not the purple-label ones you're holding."

"What's the difference?"

"For one thing, those ones aren't vitamins."

"They say 'health supplements' on them."

"Maybe by some definitions. Technically, they're 'mood enhancers to help your omega lead a happy and healthy existence.'"

"…meaning?"

"They make omegas stupid, docile and horny."

"Oh. …so, _these_ ones, right?"

"Correct."

*

"No, Jody, just no. There's no _way_ he's going to need any of this yet, and seeing it would just upset him."

"The book isn't for him, it's for you. It take six months for a turned omega to become fertile, but you're going to want to be prepared for it when it happens. You can ignore it if you want, it'll just kick you in the ass down the road."

"There is no way Sam is ever going to want to have children."

"That's fine, he doesn't have to – I'm no promega purist. But once he gets an alpha, he's going to end up having sex again, and you'll want the information on hand. So buy the book… _And_ the condoms."

*

"Those are _dog beds_ , Jody."

"They're not dog beds. They're omega pillows. They're much softer than dog beds, and the foam cushioning inside is designed to protect their knees. And if they get tired, there's enough room for them to spread out."

"You're telling me to treat my son like a dog. I can't do that."

"I'm not telling you to treat him like a dog. I'm telling you that you need to treat him like an _omega_ , and that means sitting and kneeling on the floor the way he'll be expected to in public. You don't want him kneeling on hard wood for any length of time, do you?"

"I don't _want_ him kneeling at all!"

"That's not an option anymore, is it?!"

"…"

"I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. I know–"

"No, you're right… How many should I get?"

"Start with five or six. That way you have enough to spread throughout the house and one in the car for when you're visiting. Now, there's a trick that'll make using them easier on him. Let me just… open this one up… _there_. See that pouch in the middle of the foam? Slip something you've worn in there before he uses it. He won't feel it inside, but he'll be able to scent it a little. It'll make him feel more at ease sitting on it."

*

They finally stopped for coffee and an overdue lunch at a club called The Den. John had suggested the diner he and the boys frequented every time they drove through, had never even heard of The Den, but Jody seemed set on it. From the outside it wasn't very impressive, just a squat, square brick building with a lingering smell of alcohol and cigar smoke. Once they walked through the door, it was nicer, if conservative, with well-kept hardwood floors and a tasteful mahogany, black and beige color scheme.

Inside, John understood instantly why the sheriff had brought him here. The table they were seated at was bigger than you usually saw in restaurants, and set slightly lower to the floor. The chairs were designed to recline, too, and on the ground next to each lay a square pillow.

It was an alpha-omega club. In all the times he'd visited Bobby, he'd had no idea it was even here.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Doesn't seem like your usual kind of place."

It wasn't his kind of place, either; he saw little reason to segregate himself away from betas. By law, clubs like The Den had to allow betas inside, but they didn't have to make them feel welcome, and most had no desire to steep themselves in traditional A/o dynamics and power displays.

"It isn't," Jody agreed, frowning slightly. "But I have to come here regularly for inspections, to make sure everything stays up to code."

The young omega who served them smiled brightly and wouldn't meet either of their eyes as she took their orders. She smelled sweetly of obedience and a desire to please, making his nostrils flare unintentionally. John sipped at the water she'd brought him as he calmed his scent, then looked at Jody. "Let me guess, health code inspections?"

"Yep," she said flatly, eyes on the waitress as an alpha across the room slapped her ass when she leaned down to place his order on the table. The waitress squeaked in surprise, then laughed uneasily as she skirted outside of his reach on her way back to the kitchen. "Morals code violations, too."

They ate quickly and perfunctorily in relative silence, John's eyes darting around the room to the few other midday patrons there. The handsy alpha businessman was working on his laptop as he ate, his omega kneeling obediently next to him, leash tied to the table leg. The boy couldn't have been much older than Sam, and wearing the very type of clothing John and Jody had looked at earlier, an oversized flowy white linen shirt and simple brown linen pants. His expression was glazed and unfocused as he leaned his head against the businessman's leg, and every so often he would giggle and rub his cheek against the alpha's thigh. Occasionally the man would rip off a piece of his sandwich and absently lower it down for the omega to nibble from his hand.

Two tables down, another businessman-type chatted away obliviously on his cell phone while his omega, dressed in incredibly flimsy – to the point of being see-through – garments shivered as she knelt next to him. His plate held the remains of a steak dinner, but as far as John could tell by the way she shot envious glances up at the table, the omega hadn't had anything to eat at all.

While John was watching, his attention was stolen by a significantly older A/o couple that were being seated a few tables away. They walked in slowly together, arm in arm, her thin gold chain leash held carefully in one of his gnarled hands. The omega waitress scurried ahead of them, picking up the club's pillow so that the white-haired alpha could place the ornately embroidered cushion he carried on the ground in its place. Then he held out his arm and supported his elderly omega as she lowered herself gingerly down onto the pillow. After seating himself in the chair, he wrapped her leash around her neck and fastened it, turning it into a necklace, then ran his hand lovingly over her chin as he pulled her in for a kiss.

On the other side of John's table, three young alphas were in the middle of a poker game with chips for stakes. They were all close to Dean's age or older, and bore the insignias for the University of Sioux Falls, the area's alpha-only institution. The middle one, a blonde trust-fund with an arrogant sneer to his lips, held onto the leash of an omega who had to be at least fifteen years his senior. Kneeling next to him, she was clearly in good shape, but her alpha had dressed her in clothing that was at least one size too small given the way her curves overflowed their boundaries. She was clearly embarrassed, making little attempt to prevent anyone from smelling her humiliation, and flinched reflexively every time her alpha pushed more chips into the pot.

Jody's eyes narrowed when she noticed them. "Speaking of morals violations… excuse me for a second. I'll be right back."

The sheriff walked over to the table, smiling as the alpha's sneer vanished when he looked up at her. "Brock and Ms. Johnson, good to see you!" The omega instinctively kept her head down, but a moment later John could smell her relief.

Brock glowered at her. "Sheriff Mills, what an unexpected surprise. Do you want us to deal you in?"

Jody shook her head. "Nope. I just wanted to let you know that you did a _great_ job with that community service project, all those hours you spent cleaning up and painting the youth center."

The kid smiled thinly. "Thanks." He turned back to the table dismissively.

"You know," she continued loudly, leaning on the table next to him so that her fingers pressed his hand of cards against the wood, "the Sioux Falls Senior Center is looking pretty bad these days. Might need a lot of work. We'd sure _love_ to have your help again. Of course, the place smells a lot worse than the youth center, what with so many older people being _incontinent_ and _ill_. But I'm sure the benefit to our community is worth smelling all that for however many weeks it takes to fix it up, right?"

All three young alphas paled slightly.

"But I'm sure that's of no concern to you boys, right? You're only playing for _chips_ these days, after all."

Brock muttered his assent.

Jody beamed at him. "Great to hear it! Guess the old folks' home will have to wait a while longer for its new paint job then. Well, I better get back to my lunch guest." She touched the omega's shoulder and squeezed it kindly. "Good to see you're doing well, Ms. Johnson."

Brock sneered. "She goes by Libby now. Don't you, Libby?"

The older woman mumbled something. When Brock jerked her leash, she looked up and said more clearly, "That's right, Sheriff Mills. It's Libby now. Just Libby."

John could see Jody's jaw tic for a moment, but she kept her face straight. "Well, then, Libby it is. I'll make sure to remember that when I come around to check on you next time." She nodded dismissively at the alpha, "–Brock" and turned to walk away.

"I caught that little asshole putting up 'private time' with his omega as collateral in games," the beta said as she sat back down across from John. "Got him maximized community service hours for it, but it wasn't enough to take her away from him. It's really tragic. If his father'd had any idea what would happen after he died, I'm sure he would have made different accommodations for his wife instead of leaving her to his son."

And things like that were why John preferred to hunt monsters. He'd like nothing better to walk over there and wipe the floor with all three of those brats, but at the end of the day, they'd be the "poor victims," he'd be in jail, and Ms. Johnson – "Libby" – would be no better off.

He pushed his sandwich away, appetite gone, needing suddenly to be back with Sam and Dean. "So, Jody, you obviously didn't pick this place on a whim. Why are we here? You trying to send me a message, like I don't look at each of these omegas and imagine Sam in their place already?"

"No," she said calmly, wiping her mouth with her napkin. "I know you do. By now he's already begun to smell like an omega to you, and your subconscious has started to accept it on some level, even if your conscious mind hasn't. That's just biology. We're here because I wanted you to look at these omegas – really look at them – and imagine your other son, your _alpha_ son, kneeling there. Imagine _Dean_ in their place."

The thought was unbearable. Unthinkable.

To his credit, he didn't actually growl out loud – at least, he was pretty sure he hadn't. He couldn't help the cloud of anger that burst out from him like thunder before a lightning strike, or the fact that he'd reared up, chair clattering backward as he loomed over the table at her.

The three alphas noticed it first, scattering their cards and rising to their feet while their omega cowered against the table. Both of the businessmen had stopped their work to stare at John, too. The shivering omega audibly had whimpered and crouched down, her head to the pillow in submission, while the stoned one simply cocked his head, confused. Only the elderly alpha remained unconcerned. His focused, collected scent rippled back at John, urging him to calm down.

Sheriff Jody looked unfazed, although her hand trembled around her mug as she lifted it to her lips and sipped.

"That thing you're feeling right now – that's how Sam is going to feel when he has to start being an omega." She lowered the cup down to the table. "He's had an alpha's childhood and an alpha's upbringing, and none of that will prepare him for the way he now has to accept being. It's going to feel terrible and alien and oppressive."

The beta nodded at the waitress timidly making her way towards them, her manager one step behind. "Sorry about that, it's okay–" the off-duty sheriff then raised her voice a little louder "–everything's okay folks, nothing to be alarmed about–" before looking back at John to finish quietly, even with a touch of amusement, "–sit down, John, you're scaring the other alphas."

He sat down, trying to process what she had said while he calmed himself down. She let him do so in silence for a few minutes, drinking her coffee until he was composed enough for her to continue.

"I'm not saying this to be mean or hurtful. I'm saying it because you have to _know_. Everything you just felt – that's what you're up against." She met his gaze, staring firmly across the table. "Sam has to learn how to function in society as an omega. You're going to want to make this as easy as possible for him, but I'm telling you, _there is no easy way_. I've seen this again and again. You've got two choices here. You can be his _friend_ , and be nice and kind and let him take all the time in the world 'coming to grips' with the situation and end up watching him get carted off to an omega rehabilitation center, or you can be his _father,_ rip that Band-Aid off and make sure he'll pass his adjustment tests."

John ran a hand over his face. The throbbing behind his temples warned him of an incipient headache.

Jody leaned forward. "No matter what you do, Sam's going to hate you for a while. It's non-negotiable, destined to happen, a fait accompli." She shrugged. "And I'm telling you, you have to _let him_. You'll want to stop it, you won't be able to help that – the nose plugs will help, but only so far. It might be the hardest thing you ever do, far harder than butting heads with your alpha sons ever was. Never stop loving him, but let him hate you. It won't last forever. I promise."

The alpha hunter downed the rest of his water in one gulp. "This is you ripping off a Band-Aid of your own, huh?"

Her eyes softened. "Yeah, pretty much. If there's a mistake a family with an omega transition can make, I've probably seen it. I try to head the worst ones off when I can nowadays. It sucks, all of it, but all you can do is get through it and out the other side."

John stood up, noting with some satisfaction that the table of young alphas were all still instinctively tracking his movement. "You've given me a lot to think about, Jody – Sheriff Mills. But I'd better get back to my sons. They need me."

She nodded in understanding. "Yes, they will."

The beta walked him to his truck and exchanged numbers with him – "Call me if you need to, I'll always do what I can" – then paused as she turned to go.

"One last thing… He'll try to run. They all do." She had a sad, faraway look in her eyes, remembering another omega, another transition. "Maybe you'll see the signs, maybe he'll catch you blind. I don't know how long it'll take to happen, and honestly, I've got no advice on what you should do _when_ it happens. Just… know that it will. And figure out beforehand how you want to handle it."

He took her hand and shook it. It was a firm strong grip, one that cautioned respect. "Thank you. I wish we'd met under better circumstances."

"Me too, John." She smiled sadly. "Me too."


	11. Denial Is Just a River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wakes up... again.

Sam had always been inquisitive. As he grew, knowledge had opened doors and brought greater freedom; getting a full ride to Stanford was the culmination of years of asking _what_ and _how_ and _why_. There were only a few notable exceptions, some answers he wished he'd never found to questions he shouldn't have asked. "What happened to Mom?" was one. "What does Dad write about in his journal?" was another.

Today he had a new one: "How the hell did you not notice immediately that some sick fucker had stapled your dick full of metal?" (The answer – Sam now knew intimately – was, "I'm sorry, I was too busy staring at the place where my balls used to be," and it was every bit as unsatisfying and traumatic as it sounded.)

It was almost funny, in some sick fashion, like a particularly off-color "Why did the chicken cross the road?" joke.

Almost. Except for the part where, y'know, he'd had to live through it. But he'd survived. He was fine. Sure, he'd lost it earlier, but who wouldn't? Trauma and turning hormones – he was entitled.

He was _fine_ now.

Sam had woken up well into the afternoon. It had been embarrassing to find himself curled up around Dean in bed. They hadn't shared a bed since Sam was, what, 11? And with good reason – neither of them was exactly small or cuddly anymore.

Well, one of them was a little smaller now.

Sam had lain in bed for a minute or two longer, then sighed and extricated himself from his brother. He had to face the music sooner or later – and now was preferable, with no witnesses were awake.

The bathroom floor practically sparkled when he walked in – easily the cleanest he'd seen it in years, a strange contrast to the faded walls and grime-coated fixtures.

He _definitely_ owed Bobby an apology. The bathroom, on the other hand, was probably grateful.

Mirror. He could do this. He opened his eyes and looked. Time to meet the new Sam Winchester.

New, yes. Improved? Not really, no. He wasn't dead, wasn't a bloodsucking freak or a heart-eating monstrosity, so when you put it in perspective, it wasn't _that_ bad. It would take some getting used to, he thought, taking in the extent of the changes, but he could live with it.

Not being 6'1" anymore was a little bit of a blow. He was probably, what, 5'11" now? But it was nothing he couldn't handle. In some ways… once he got used to it… things might even be easier. He would have gotten tired of knocking his head into doorways and low-hanging chandeliers sooner or later, anyway. And small cars. Not to mention, Dean definitely would be less of a jerk now that he had a good inch or two of height over him instead again of the other way around. And, he could blend into a scene more if he didn't tower over everyone. So.

It had its advantages. Assuming he stopped there.

His face was… not very different, actually, other than the metal forced through his ears. Maybe a little longer, a little more pointed in the cheekbones. He didn't have his usual stubble on his chin, but at least there was still a fine dusting of hair across his jaw. Below the chin, though, he was all smooth, and that was just – weird.

Shoulders and chest were narrower, arms slightly shorter, fingers… fingers and hands shorter. He could work with this. The reflexes would have to be retrained, but not worse than after a bad break. Muscles… definitely some muscle loss there, but not _all_ the definition was gone. He twisted to look at his back, and caught a glimpse of the bandage where the – where the brand had landed. It ached dully as he stretched and turned, but there weren't any signs of infection or additional tissue damage that he could see.

He was stalling.

He let himself put it off for a few moments longer by unwrapping the bandage around his earlobe. It was ragged and red, but already healing after only a few hours – that crazy "new omega" healing time, he knew. His hands hadn't been steady enough to cut for a clean surgical line, and the end result looked a little like someone had taken a bite out of his ear. But not terrible. Kind of rakish? Maybe?

Sam carefully re-wrapped his ear. Then he took a deep breath, stared at the mirror, and pulled his boxers down.

It… it wasn't so bad, he thought. If he'd seen this body on some _(other)_ omega, he'd probably have been turned on by it. Long, lithe, smooth and hairless, like he'd never hit puberty. Except even then, he'd still had balls – they never went away unless you presented as omega _(or were turned)_.

It didn't look bad. It just… didn't look like _him_.

It was like someone had swapped his body from the neck down. _An alien landscape._ He ran a hand over the skin of his groin, feeling the foreign, smooth plane where his testicles used to be. When his fingertips touched cool metal instead of flesh, his hand jerked away instinctively like he'd been burned, brushing his dick accidentally on the way.

Which was when he finally noticed the malicious little metal ladder running up the underside of his dick. Wicked little barbells. He pulled his cock to one side and counted, one two three… nine of them? And a ring through the tip. And that other ring, the one he'd first noticed, had to be right below where – where his balls would have been.

"Makes ya glad you started up north when you freaked out earlier, doesn't it?" Dean's rough, still-sleepy voice carried in from the bedroom, making him jump.

He pulled up his boxers in a flash. "Jesus, Dean, there's this thing called privacy."

"Wasn't peeking in on ya, don't worry," Dean retorted. "Not awake enough for that yet."

Sam grabbed the first t-shirt he could find by the door – Dean's ratty Stairway to Heaven shirt – and yanked it over his head. "Oh yeah? How'd you know what I was doing then?"

The fucker actually had the gall to laugh. "Cause that's what I'd be doing in there too under the circumstances."

"Ha ha, very funny," Sam grimaced at Dean. He breathed in, slow and evenly, focusing on controlling his scent. Alpha or omega, the theory worked the same, right? And he _really_ didn't need his brother second-guessing everything he said right now.

The older Winchester rolled out of bed and stretched his back. "Seriously, Sammy how're you doin'? Seems like you got your noggin' on a bit straighter."

Sam shrugged, stepping away from Dean just a little. It was weird looking up at him again. "Honestly? Been better, but I'm okay now." He really did feel okay. He felt calmer, like his earlier breakdown had relieved the pressure building up that kept him from thinking clearly. That and a good night's sleep.

"That's… that's good, Sammy," Dean said. "That's great, man!" There was more cautious surprise in the alpha's scent than happiness, but that was a little expected given everything.

He rifled through his duffel bag. "Hey, what did you do with my razor? I'd like to get this scruff shaved off." He saw the worry on Dean's face and chuckled. "Don't worry, I'm not planning any more impromptu self-improvement projects."

Dean cocked his head. "Why don't you leave it? It doesn't look bad. Makes you look a little less girl–" his jaw clicked shut as he cut himself off mid-word, chagrined.

"Fuck you, Dean." Sam turned away sharply and headed to the dresser, rummaging through the top drawer. "I could have sworn I left one behind the last time we were here."

Dean sighed. "They're all gone, Sam. Knives, too. Bobby cleaned the place out after your little episode earlier. You can have 'em back once you can prove you're not going to go all Jack the Ripper again."

Sam shut the drawer. "That's a terrible analogy, Dean. Jack the Ripper killed prostitutes. You want someone more like Johnny Depp or Drew Barrymore."

Dean snorted as he pulled on one of his plain black tees. "Did you _really_ just tell me to compare you to Drew Barrymore?"

Sam rolled his eyes as he grabbed a pair of jeans out his bag. "If the other option is Jack the Ripper, then yes." It felt good to be back to the old familiar teasing routine.

"Fine, _Drew_. My point still stands. No razors just yet." Dean sat on the bed and began to pull on his jeans. "Tell ya what, though, I'll go without, too. Ya know, in solidarity."

Sam grabbed his own pair of jeans. "You have no idea where Bobby put them, do you?

The older Winchester chuckled. "Not a clue. I was too busy counting how many ears you had left."

Sam sighed, loudly. "Fair enough." He slid his jeans up over his hips. "I did kind of lose it there, didn't I? Can't really blame you."

He could feel himself blushing slightly in embarrassment.

"…Thanks for stopping me, Dean, I wasn't thinking straight at the time." Sam fingered the bandage on his lobe. "It doesn't look too horrible, though. Like I could have gotten it in a bar fight, or something."

He realized Dean was staring at him. "What?" he snapped, fastening the buttons on his fly.

"You sure you're okay, Sam? I mean, no offense, but I'd be losing my shit all over the place in your shoes." The alpha moved toward him, and he once again found himself backing away slightly.

"I know. I thought – I thought I would be, too. And I mean, I did, for a little while, right?" He shrugged helplessly. "But I'm not now. I'm done with that. It's not the end of the world, right? It just is what it is, and I'm… I'm okay with that. I just want to get back up to speed as fast as possible and get things back to _normal_." He grabbed one of his plaid shirts and slid his arms into it, rolling up the sleeves.

Dean stared at him searchingly. Sam met his gaze and held it.

"If you say you're fine, I believe you. I'm just– just worried about you. We all are." He reached out a hand as if to touch his shoulder, but let it drop when his brother swayed back out of reach. "But it's also all right if you're _not_ okay."

Sam shook his head. "I'm fine, Dean, and seriously, enough with the chick-flick moments, okay?" He turned back to the bed, but swiveled around again as the older Winchester started outright laughing.

"What?!" Sam asked crossly as Dean just shook his head.

"Here," Dean dug through his duffel until he could extricate a pair of his jeans to toss at Sam. "No offense, Sammy, I mean, you look freaking _adorable_ an' all, but I think these'll fit you a little bit better."

Sam caught the jeans, but stood there confused, until he caught sight of himself in the mirror a minute later. Meant for a taller and slightly broader frame, Sam's jeans were bunched up at his hips, where he'd had to pull the belt in more, baggy over his slightly more slender legs, and pooled around his feet. The overall effect wasn't unlike a kid playing dress-up. _(An omega playing at being alpha.)_

It was still – it was all manageable. Just one more thing on the list to deal with. He was still fine.

Sam turned away from Dean and stripped off his jeans robotically, swiftly pulling on the replacements Dean had given him and transferring his keys, coins and wallet from one to the other. He gathered up his old jeans and dumped them on the floor. After a moment's thought, he shrugged and dug his other two pairs of pants out of his duffel and added them to the pile. After another moment, he added his shoes and socks, then tossed his underwear in the trash.

"Congratulations." His voice was steady. Good. "Looks like you get to share all your clothes until I can trade mine in at Goodwill. Sucks to be you, but hey, at least they'll look _adorable_ on me, right?"

Sam grabbed Dean's favorite pair of boots, jerked them on and laced them up, then was out the door and down the stairs before his brother had time to respond.

He could do this.

* * *

If Dean heard the word "fine" one more time, so help him, someone was going to get punched. Some _thing_ , he corrected himself immediately; there was no way he was going to clobber Sammy, even if the kid and his attitude were totally asking for it.

Sam'd blown out of the house before Dean could react, tossing off another casual reassurance that everything was okay as he went. By the time Dean had caught up, he was standing at Bobby's makeshift shooting range along the far edge of the salvage yard, carefully counting out ammo as he loaded it into a gun he'd picked up from god knew where along the way.

"Sam–"

"Set them up for me, will you?" Sam nodded at the basket of cans and bottles the old hunter always kept at the range.

Muscle memory alone moved Dean to the basket like he'd done so many times over the years, but he hesitated there, glancing back at Sam. "I really think maybe you should be taking it a little easier today, Sam. Maybe–"

"Who are you and what did you do with my brother?" Sam looked down the gun's sight, toward the far end of the range. "I'm doing what Dad always says – 'If it ain't broke, walk it off, and if it hurt your feelings, take it out on the next sorry bastard you get to put down.'"

Dean snorted as he picked a few cans and empty whiskey bottles out of the basket. "Don't feed me that bull, Sam. You haven't blindly agreed with what Dad says in years. Fuck, lately it's been like you go out of your way to do the opposite."

"Yeah, well, and look where that got me." Sam said sharply. Then he exhaled and looked up, flipping his bangs out of his eyes with a headshake. " _Please_ , Dean. I just – Dad's going to want a status report when he gets back anyway, and I… I need a target." He smiled bitterly. "I just want to see how much I have to re-learn. Not gonna shoot until you're safely back behind me, if that's what you're worried about."

"Sammy, of all the things I'm worried about, that ain't even on the list." Dean cocked his head and looked at Sam a moment longer, then nodded. He spaced the bottles and cans in his arms out evenly across the fence posts, then went back for a second trip and made it an even dozen targets. Once everything was set up, he found himself pausing helplessly beside his brother, trying to figure out what exactly he wanted to say to him. _You don't have to do this anymore_ , maybe. Or, _there's no status to report_. Or maybe just, _I'm sorry._

"Sam–"

Anything else he might have said was silenced by the pistol's discharge.

After the first five shots went completely wild, Dean couldn't help but step forward. "You gonna keep wasting ammo, Sammy, or you gonna let me help you?"

Just like earlier, Sam shied away when his alpha brother got too close. "Shut it, Dean. I don't need your help – I can figure this out." He readjusted his stance and turned back to the bottles. "I just have to calculate out how to compensate for the change in muscle."

The next two shots also missed, the recoil jerking Sam's hand out of alignment back each time. Finally, he gave in and took a police stance, one hand on the gun, the other supporting the first to stabilize it. That time the shot hit the post the bottle was sitting on, making it wobble and fall.

"It only counts if you hit 'em, geekboy."

The omega turned back to the remaining bottles, and fired off five shots in quick succession. Two more hit the posts, but the last three landed squarely on target to the sound of breaking glass.

Sam grinned. "Go fuck yourself." He returned to the start of the row and began to down the ones he'd missed the first time around until the ammo ran out. "I don't think I've shot that bad since I was 15, but I think I've got it now." His smile faltered, then settled into look of determination as he popped out the magazine and began to refill it. "Set 'em up again."

Dean replaced the targets – mostly chili cans and liquor bottles, which said something about Bobby that surprised absolutely no one who knew him – and watched as Sam worked his way down the line. This time he only missed twice, but came back scowling. "Better, but not good enough. And I'll have to do a _lot_ of push-ups and lifts before I can go back to shooting one-handed."

Sam shoved the gun at Dean. "Reload this for me." Then he picked up what was left of the targets in the basket, arranging them at different heights and distances.

Dean stood there, watching him, gun in hand. This was nothing Sam and he hadn't done dozens of times before, something that had to be done each time a bone got broken or a muscle got strained. Years of shared history told him to load the gun.

His nose, enveloped in the cloud of omega pheromones still clinging to the gun, told him otherwise.

Sam took the choice out of his hands, quite literally, with a growled, "Thanks for nothing." His fingers moved with practiced efficiency, slotting the bullets into place, as he turned to the fence. Dean just breathed in as Sam moved down the line, scenting the underlying distress his brother was doing a good job of hiding.

When the magazine was empty, Dean moved in swiftly before Sam could reload, ignoring the burn of the heated metal as he wrapped his hand around the middle of the gun. " _Enough_ , Sam."

"But–"

Dean sighed. "'s good enough for today, Sam. You did good. But we oughta conserve ammo. I mean, we both know you might not be…" he shrugged and looked down at the ground "…y'know, _done_ yet. Should have some left in case we have to come back out here again." It wasn't a lie. Not exactly, anyway.

Sam grumbled, but let Dean take the gun. He turned to stalk back toward the house, but swiveled back around almost immediately. "Okay, I'll stand down on this if you get the knives and go a few rounds with me."

Dean looked from the gun to his brother and shook his head. "No, Sammy." He brushed past him and began walking. After a second Sam's footsteps fell in behind him.

"What the fuck, Dean? Any other time, you'd be complaining if I _didn't_ want this." Dean didn't have to see his brother to know the way his brow was furrowed and his lips were pursed.

"Not anymore, Sam." He knew his scent was tense with frustration, but he couldn't seem to tamp it down. "Just 'cause you don't want to think about it, doesn't mean it's not true."

"Don't want to think about? It's all I _can_ think about if I let myself stop to think. But I'm not dead, I'm not worthless–" his voice caught a little there "–I'm still _me_. I can still think, I can still research, I can still shoot. _I can still fight._ "

Dean rotated in place to stare at his brother. Like he expected, the omega reflexively took a step backwards. "It hasn't even been– Sammy, you should be in _bed_ right now, recovering. Not trying to prove some stupid point by stressing out your body. And definitely not by fighting. That ain't anything you have to be worrying about. You don't need to fight any more."

Fuck, he was going to have a migraine if this kept up.

"You're a civilian now, for better or worse. On the sidelines. Permanently benched. Out of the fucking game. It might not be the way you or I woulda wanted it for you, but you got your wish – you're outta the life."

In retrospect, turning his back on Sam after that wasn't his smartest move.

* * *

"SonofaBITCH!"

It wasn't the first time Bobby had been woken from a nap to the sound of Winchesters sparring or, rarely, all-out fighting in the front yard. From the surprise and frustration in Dean's voice, this fell somewhere in-between the two.

"Fuck you, Dean." Sam's voice was low but angry. "You have no idea what I do or don't want." There were sounds of a scuffle, and then Sam's tenor growl. "And it's not _up_ to you."

Bobby sat up, carefully closing the binder he'd fallen asleep reading and placing it on the floor. He could hear more sounds of combat now – a few grunts and a lot of dancing around, but no actual hits. Dean playing it safe, Sam pressing the advantage.

"It's not about what you want, Sam." Scuff-slide- _whoosh_. "Not about what I want either." _Thump_ -scuffle-scuff- _ngh_ -shuffle-scuff. "It's just the way it is."

Bobby glanced out the window as Sam swung at Dean. There was no way the punch was going to land; the kid was fighting for the height and weight he had been, not the size he now was. He was too far away to hit his brother without taking an unexpected extra step forward. His center of balance was off, and he knew it even as he shifted his stance to compensate. His fist passed harmlessly in front of Dean, who simply leaned back slightly to avoid it.

"That's bullshit, Dean." Sam recovered with a left hook, glowering as Dean knocked it aside with his forearm.

"No, it ain't," the older brother took a step back, hands out in front of him to ward Sam off. "It's biology. Two days ago you woulda been agreeing with me."

Sam slammed forward, bringing up his arms inside Dean's to knock them out of the way. He leaned forward, grabbing Dean's shirt as he yelled, "Two days ago I would have been _wrong_!" Then just as suddenly, he flinched back, dropping the cloth, eyes widening. He tried to cover for it by spinning around and stomping away, but the tell had been obvious.

An alpha wouldn't have reacted with fear to the scent of Dean's anger.

An alpha wouldn't have _cared_.

Dean looked upset but unhurt. Sam, though… the boy was pale and sweating, his muscles trembling. Probably scenting to hell and back, too, given how Dean's nostrils kept flaring – fear, anger and grief, no doubt. He stood there, his back to Dean, ramrod-straight, fists clenching and unclenching as he forced his new unwanted instincts into submission.

Some of Sam's distress was just physical exhaustion. No matter what the kid might think, his body was still in transition, and it was going to be siphoning off a lot of energy until it was done. What Bobby'd read online said Sam would probably be sleeping at least 14 to 16 hours a day for the next week or so, depending on how fast his body adapted – up for a couple hours, then asleep for a bunch, rinse and repeat. Before he'd dozed off, Bobby had in fact been trying to figure out a good rotation to shuffle everyone's schedules so there'd be someone awake to watch over the boy around the clock. And given all that, Sam being up scrapping around was one of the stupider things he could have been doing.

Not _surprising_ , just stupid. Ran in the family.

But the rest of Sam's distress, the part that wasn't fatigue – that was the problem. Sam still had the attitude of an alpha, that was clear, but his body chemistry was shot to hell, one big jumble of pheromones and hormones and god knew what else. Just a few seconds ago he'd flipped from alpha rage to omega submission and right back again. And that wasn't even taking into consideration the perfectly understandable emotional fallout due from what he'd been through yesterday.

_Christ,_ Bobby thought, _was it really just yesterday?_

Out in the yard, Sam seemed to have collected himself enough. He turned back to Dean, trembling mostly subsided. "I'm not _weak_ , Dean."

He shifted into a fighting stance and circled his brother, looking for an opportunity. It would have been easier if his eyes hadn't kept skittering away from his opponent's steady stare, but to Sam's credit, he always forced his gaze back. He feinted left, then danced around waiting for Dean to leave himself open. "There's nothing wrong with me that I can't train out or re-learn."

Up to this point, Dean had simply been guarding himself, reacting to Sam without initiating anything, but now he snorted. _"Really?"_ In an instant, his posture shifted from defensive to offensive, and he charged Sam, grappling him and pulling his left arm behind his back, twisting it sharply up as he pressed their bodies close together. "Still think so?"

A look of blind panic crossed Sam's face as his body came flush against Dean's. He threw his non-trapped shoulder into Dean, hitting him forcefully in the sternum and breaking his grasp. The minute the older Winchester's grip slackened, Sam yanked his wrist free, falling backwards to land on his ass, then scuttling backwards until he'd put a few yards between them. He sat there, panting hard and trembling and rubbing his wrist.

Dean straightened up, rubbing his hand across his face. "Look at yourself, Sam. Fuck, _smell_ yourself. You think you can fight? You think you can hunt? You can't even handle _me_ touching you right now. How're you gonna handle a ghoul? A were? A _succubus_?"

Sam panted through his clenched teeth, staring doggedly down at the ground. Then he pounded his fist on the ground once, twice, face contorted in rage as he pushed himself back to his feet, using the fender of a wrecked '92 Buick behind him for balance.

"I'll learn." Sam shook his shoulders out, his voice tremulous but determined. "I think I'm doing pretty damn good all things considered. I just–" he shifted back into a fighting pose– "I just need more practice." He straightened his shoulders and visibly steeled himself, muscles taut, as he brought his head up and forced himself to meet Dean's eyes. "I can do this. _Help_ me do this."

"All things considered?" Dean's smile was more like a grimace. "All things considered, you're doing goddamn awesome, Sammy. But that don't change the facts." Dean pointed between Sam and himself, fire in his eyes. "You – _we_ – aren't doing this." He turned and walked back toward the porch. "Omegas don't fight, and they don't hunt."

Bobby rolled his eyes. Like he said, stupid ran in the family.

Sure enough, Sam let Dean walk just far enough to give him a running start, then came in with a soft jump that landed his foot in the back of his brother's knee. Dean had heard him coming – Sam wasn't going for stealth – and had started to twist around to dodge him. He was expecting another punch, though, not a kick, and Sam's blow hit solidly. Dean's knee folded. The pair went down to the ground, Sam on top of Dean in a graceless tackle.

The omega had one knee on Dean's lower back, the other on his right arm, keeping him pinned while he pressed his elbow into the soft tissue behind Dean's left shoulder. Clever, Bobby thought, using the pressure points to compensate for his lighter frame.

"You k-keep telling yourself that." Even though Sam's breath caught, disdain dripped in his voice. "Now _f-fucking fight me!"_

"That's what you want, _Sammy_?" The old hunter hurried from the window over to the door in time to hear Dean's voice drop down into a low growl as he wrenched himself out of Sam's hold. The younger Winchester jumped clear as his brother rolled to his feet, still growling, stance shifting for a full-out attack.

Aaaand that was Bobby's cue. The last thing _any_ of them needed was Sam goading Dean into a full-on alpha rage.

_BAM!_

Bobby slammed the door open with enough force to make it hit the siding and bounce once or twice. Two pairs of eyes jumped over to him, one startled, the other measuring whether he posed a new threat.

The beta ignored them both as he stood there, scowling in the doorway until their scents began to color with shame. "If you two kn- _knuckleheads_ are done posturing at each other, _some_ of us would like to get lunch on the table. Now get yer asses inside and wash up before I go out there and knock you both into last Tuesday! _And you know I'm good for it._ "

Muttering to himself, he stomped away from the door and into the kitchen, knowing they would follow.

_"Idjits."_


	12. The First Rule of Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch doesn't go as anyone expects.

Dean was already contrite about the way he'd talked to Sam before Bobby turned to stalk back into the house. Not that anything he'd said had been wrong… but he'd hoped that John would be the one to shoulder that particular conversation. Dean wasn't Sam's alpha; it wasn't his place.

But at that moment, he hadn't cared.

He hadn't been expecting Sam's whole Mr. Normal routine when he woke up. It had thrown Dean off his game, left him off-balance as he tried to keep up with it. And then the kid had to go and jump him, made him angry, and he just couldn't think, and _bam_ , out it had all come.

He wasn't wrong, though; no matter what Sam thought. His alpha fighting instincts would fade as the omega's nurturing side took over; heck, they were already fading. Sam had held his own today, barely, but in a week or so it would be a different story.

At least, he assumed it would be a week. He really didn't know how long the whole transition process would take. He still had that book the clinic had given him, though. Maybe once Sam was settled back down this afternoon, he'd read through it.

He turned back to Sam, trying to figure out what he could say that wouldn't just piss his brother off further, only to realize the omega was gone. He hadn't waited for him, but was already walking up the porch steps to head inside. His lip curled in frustration – _omegas walked in their alpha's shadow_ – but he bit down on the urge to growl. Sam just… needed… time to...

Dean shook his head, realizing with a start that he'd been ogling the omega as he walked into the house. He was suddenly, acutely, _painfully_ aware of the way Sam's lowered center of gravity and changing bone structure caused his hips to sway as he moved. He stuffed the unexpected arousal all the way to the back of his mind, never to be spoken of again. It could just sit there, next to the part of him that had crowed (was still crowing) this morning over Sam ending up dressed head to toe in Dean's clothes.

His _brother_. Jesus.

Dad was right, like always. Sam's turning pheromones were doing a number on him. He needed to get away for a while, go to town, get a drink or three. Maybe see if the hot little convenience store beta he'd hooked up with was still working there. Get drunk, get laid, and get some freaking perspective about the whole thing. Sam would be safe here with Bobby, and John would understand. Fuck, he'd probably approve; he needed Dean in top form, not distracted and confused the way he had been.

It was _exactly_ what he should do.

Instead, he went inside for lunch.

* * *

Sam didn't know where Dean was, and he hated it. Hated how unsafe he felt not knowing. Hated the way his hands were still trembling after that fight, the way his heart had jumped into triple time at Dean's growled " _Sammy_." Hated how he'd momentarily wanted to bare his neck and submit instead of giving Dean the solid punch in the jaw that he'd _really_ had coming after that little speech.

He stared at himself in the mirror over the sink in the downstairs bathroom, willing his nerves to settle.

Fighting Dean had been eye-opening. Attacking him from behind, that had been easy (and something to remember for the future). But the moment he'd felt the full weight of his brother's disapproval bearing down on him, it was like some alien parasite had slithered inside Sam's mind, trying to re-wire every impulse as it happened. Real _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ -style shit.

It was easier to think of it that way. Not as something inevitable that had been forced upon him, but something he could battle for control. This _omega_ was a parasite attached to his nervous system. It had forced his body to mutate, turned it into an alien, hospitable environment for it. Now it was trying to mutate his thoughts. If he let it, it would turn him into not-Sam, into some alien cowering weakling.

But as long as he realized it was there, he could fight it.

_Your brain is your strongest weapon._ His father's calm instructions came back to him from years of hunting. _As long as you can think, you can fight. If you get hurt on a hunt, you figure out a way to compensate for it and keep going. The hunt's not over 'til it's over._ _Winchesters go down fighting._

And he had found a way, hadn't he? He'd fought through the panic each time, no matter how hard it had been. The more he practiced, the easier it would get, he was sure. His reaction times would get better, he could train around it, change up his tactics – more sniping, less head-on confrontation. The parasite would always be there, he'd always be _infected_ by it, but he didn't have to surrender without giving it the literal fight of his life. Sam might have lost his body, but his soul was still his own.

_Winchesters go down fighting._

His hands stopped shaking.

* * *

When Sam pushed past him in the hall, chin jutted forward and scowl firmly in place, Dean began preparing for a very uncomfortable meal of awkward silences and avoidant glances. Or possibly the opposite, Sam continuing to press his point until one of them snapped, the way he and Dad used to go at it. Either way would end with Bobby getting fed up with both of them – again – and trying to mediate. His stomach curdled at the inevitable ordeal to come.

Except it didn't.

What actually happened was this: Bobby had gone ahead and decided lunch was going to be hot dogs, and had already started boiling them in beer on the stove. They were one of the beta's signature go-to comfort foods for the boys – had been since the first time their dad had left them there on a hunt.

Sam took two steps into the kitchen and breathed in, nose flaring at the familiar aroma emanating from the pan. Then he froze, stopping so abruptly that Dean nearly barreled into him, and the color drained out of his face. He stood stock still, swaying slightly, eyes flickering back and forth, the scent of his panic suddenly thick and heavy on Dean's tongue.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, reaching forward apprehensively.

His brother made a brief, aborted sound, choked off in his throat before it could turn into words. Then he turned and bolted past Dean, back through the living room, accidentally knocking over a stack of Bobby's books in his flight. A few seconds later, the front door slammed open with a bang.

A good alpha, a competent alpha – _Dad_ – would immediately have followed on his heels, keeping a respectful distance from the pack member in crisis but staying close enough to make sure danger couldn't get near. John would have known what to do and just done it, Dean thought, willing his legs to move. If only he were the man his father was. Something was wrong with his brother, and there Dean was, frozen and uncertain as if Sammy's fear had been somehow contagious.

He stood there, him and Bobby both, staring after the fleeing omega, mouths agape in confusion. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his reflexes kicked back in, and he took a deep juddering breath. "Bobby, I–" The older hunter simply nodded, and Dean hurled himself in search of his brother.

The porch door was hanging wide open when Dean reached it, and the salvage yard seemed quiet, but the ground in front of the house was damp – _bile_ , from the smell. Sam had stopped here, paused momentarily as he lost what little was in his stomach, then kept moving before he had even recovered. It was easy to follow the lingering traces of bile on the ground in-between the stacks of wrecked vehicles until he picked up Sam's scent.

His brother was curled up against a junked station wagon in the far corner of the yard, sitting on the ground with his back to it, head on his knees, shoulders shaking. When Dean approached, the omega looked up. His eyes were red, and tear tracks ran down his cheeks.

He immediately looked away again, out toward the forest edge, shame and humiliation clouding around him. "They were grilling," he said lowly, staring fixedly at the ground. "When, when – I could smell meat. And beer, they were drinking. They said I had to, to, to _stay hydrated_ –" his breath hitched, "–so they would, I couldn't stop it, they would–" he lurched to one side, hands dropping to the ground as he dry-heaved, his body trying to empty itself.

"Hey, hey," Dean said, waiting until Sam looked up again before he moved closer. "C'mon, deep breaths, count 'em out… one, two, three, four." Slowly the aborted hurling turned into ragged hiccups.

The alpha knelt down next to his brother, making sure to telegraph each movement clearly. "This okay?" He waited for Sam's nodded permission before gingerly hugging him. "I need you to focus on your diaphragm and settle it down, kid, 'cause you got nothin' down there anymore to throw up."

"It doesn't feel that way." The omega grimaced, but he followed Dean's lead, discomfort slowly ebbing after a few shaky breaths and coughs.

"C'mon," Dean slid his coat around Sam's shoulders, then eased them both back onto their feet. "Let's go on back inside. I'll tell Bobby to crack a window and make something else. Grilled cheese, maybe? Or soup?"

"I'm not really hungry." Sam didn't meet Dean's eyes as he said it – never could when he was lying. Instead, he sunk down into the alpha's jacket, huddling into its warmth even as he shrugged his shoulders free from Dean's gentle grasp. The gesture was obviously meant to communicate independence. The lost and forlorn look on his face, however, coupled with his hunched posture inside the leather coat just made him seem young and vulnerable. "'m just gonna go upstairs 'n sleep some more," he mumbled.

Well, the kid _did_ look tired, and if he was asleep, he wasn't going to be pushing more crack ideas like combat. "Okay, Sammy, you can sleep, but you still gotta eat something first. Bobby or I will throw a sandwich together for ya."

Sam very carefully looked down straight at his feet, shoulders hunched in protectively, one arm crossed in front of him, cradling his other elbow. "Just bread and meat, okay? And lettuce. But no– no mayo or anything. No sauce." When Dean furrowed his brow at that, Sam shrugged his shoulders and added, "It just… 's the texture." His voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper. "The, um, the consistency."

The _consistency_? Dean mused. What– o _hhhhh._ And also, _ew._

"Thanks, dork," he grumbled. "Now I'm not gonna be able to eat it either."

Sam barked out a bitter laugh. "Trust me, it could be worse."

"Sam-" Dean had no idea what he was going to say, almost grateful when his brother held up a hand to stop him.

"Don't, Dean. Just… leave it, okay?" Sam pursed his lips in a pained grin. "I'm all right. Well, okay, I'm not yet, but I will be. I just need a few minutes here. Bobby's got to be wondering what the hell happened. You go on in and…" his gaze skipped past Dean, focusing on nothing. "–and fill him in on whatever he needs to know. You can tell him, it's okay. I'll just let my stomach settle, then I'll come get that sandwich."

"Yeah, that's a no-can-do, kid," Dean disagreed gently. "You want me to back off, okay, I'll go lean on a different car, but as your big brother, I'm not going anywhere 'til you are."

Sam smiled, a real smile this time. "Thanks." He leaned his head back against the junked wagon and closed his eyes.

* * *

Bobby watched Dean dart off after his brother and did the only sensible thing he could think of: he turned back to the stove and finished cooking his dogs. Whatever the hell that was just about, he'd find out soon enough, and he'd rather not do so on an empty stomach.

Sure enough, just about when he'd started in on his second hot dog, two sets of boots thumped cautiously back into the house. He could hear them in the hallway, Dean's voice full of concern, Sam's too low to hear.

"–just hang out here a minute and pick up those books, and I'll get things set with Bobby." A pause. "Hey, no, what did I say, it's okay, remember?" Another pause. "'Sides, you know how Bobby is about his stuff."

Whatever had happened out there, the Dean that walked back into the kitchen was the one from this morning. All traces of the fight in the yard were gone – along with his jacket – and his expression was back to that troubled, worried gaze.

"So, uh, kink in the works, Bobby." He grabbed the loaf of bread from on top of the fridge and tossed it on the table, obviously not looking in the beta's direction. "Beer's, uh – beer's not good around Sam right now. Burgers too, probably. Like, _really_ not good." He rooted quickly in the fridge as he spoke, building a couple sandwiches with practiced efficiency. "I'm gonna take these to Sam instead and then get him settled back upstairs. Then I'll be back and explain more. Can you… can you get ahold of Dad, let him know – ah, know what, never mind, I'll just go shopping myself later." And then he was ducking back out into the hall and gone.

Bobby rolled his eyes and put a third hot dog on his plate. No sense letting them all go to waste.

* * *

"Jesus, John, what'd you do, buy out half the town?" Bobby stared as the elder Winchester staggered through the front door, laden down like some kind of backwoods Santa Claus.

"Feels like it right now," John grunted as he dropped bag after bulging bag unceremoniously on the living room floor. "Groceries are still outside if you got a few moments to help." He looked around curiously. "Speaking of help, where's Dean?"

The beta stood up, wincing as his joints creaked a little. "Sam was up for a bit, but he's down again. Dean's up there watching over him." He stuck an old gas receipt in the book on Algonquian folklore to mark his place and set it aside. "Not sure the kid should be alone just yet."

"Sam woke up?" John asked anxiously. "How is he?"

Bobby glanced up toward the second floor and sighed. "Let's go get those groceries," he said diplomatically.

Once the pair were outdoors, Bobby leveled a serious look at the worried father. "You want my honest assessment, or you want me to blow smoke up your ass so you don't worry?"

"Well, when you put it that way…" John grimaced. "I need the truth, Bobby, or as close as you can see to it without being able to read the kid's mind."

The back seat of the Impala was all but hidden under a small army of paper bags overflowing with cans and boxed goods. It looked like a survivalist had gone overboard on end-of-the-world preparation – which wasn't that far off, really. The only difference between survivalists and hunters is that hunters were only _half_ crazy.

The beta leaned into the car and grabbed a huge sack of potatoes, hefting it up onto his shoulder. "The truth? Physically, Sam's healed up pretty well. Looks like someone took a couple years off'a him, but he's not in any pain and even his hand seems to be working fine. Emotionally, on the other hand…"

Bobby tucked a huge pack of toilet paper under his other arm, then leaned down to grab the handles of as many bags as he could lift. "Emotionally, he's so far from okay he couldn't find it in the dictionary if you pointed him to the page. He's trying real hard to hide it, but he can't keep the mask up for long. His alpha reactions and attitude are still prevalent, but you can also see his omega instincts starting to settle in, even if he's fighting them. His reactions are like a weather balloon in a twister."

John snorted. "Unpredictable, unhelpful, and all over the map?"

The aging hunter left the heaviest bags for John – one of the "perks" of being an alpha. "There was another incident this afternoon, too – well, two, actually. The first was Dean's fault – Dean told him he wasn't going to be hunting anymore now as an omega, and Sam didn't take it well. Jumped Dean from behind, almost provoked him into using his Voice."

John nodded, his face guarded. But the bags he was carrying shook with barely contained energy, handles crumpling in his grip. He knew how much control Dean usually had over his emotions, how much Sam must have pushed to get him to that point.

"The second…" Bobby shook his head as the two headed back, not to the house but to the garage where Bobby kept his pantry. "I don't rightly know; one minute he was fine, the next he was hightailing it out of the house. Dean was pretty vague afterwards, but I get the impression it was another flashback of some kind. Long story short–" he used the toe of his boot to open the door to the garage– "the kid insisted on taking another long-ass shower and all but fell asleep in there, so Dean made him go back to bed."

Once they were both inside, the beta put the potatoes down on the cool cement floor of the garage and sighed. "I hope to hell you've got some kind of idea of what you're gonna do about Sam, because one of us oughta and I sure as hell don't."

The cans in John's bags clanked as he dropped them onto the ground. "I've got a place to start." He began to sort through them, arranging them by content on the pantry shelves. "Got a little unexpected help today from your local sheriff."

"Mills?" Bobby snorted, as he popped open the deep freeze, his breath steaming in the cold air. "She's okay for a civilian. Cares about the town." He piled in the bulk ground beef and chicken breasts John had purchased. "Thinks I'm a crackpot and a drunk, but–"

"Sounds about right," John interrupted wryly, can of beef stew in hand. "She may have said as much directly when I told her where I was staying."

The older hunter grunted as he shifted packages in the freezer to make room for the frozen vegetables. "And _speaking_ of conversations I'm glad I didn't have to be there for, you better see to your other boy. Do you know he had Sam all dressed in his clothes this afternoon?"

"Did he now?" John laughed despite the thought. "Sam probably just didn't fit into his own clothes anymore." He kept his eyes trained on the cans he was stacking on the shelf – stew, then chili, then tuna and soup and Spaghetti-o's. Sure, they were full of preservatives and chemicals, but they were also easy to cook and wouldn't go bad for years. "Might not mean anything."

The beta grunted as he pushed down on the freezer lid. "Thought you didn't want smoke blown up your ass. Dean's all but pissed on Sam to mark his territory, and if there were a few more young unmated alphas around here, I wouldn't put it past him to do that, too."

"I know, I saw him this morning." John slammed the boxes of Hamburger Helper, Rice-a-Roni and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese down on the shelf. "But he's not doing it _meaningfully_ – it's just a reaction to Sam's hormones. I got nose plugs in town. Dean'll be back to normal soon, you'll see."

Bobby just rolled his eyes. "You keep on telling yourself that."

Finally, the food was all put away. John'd bought enough to feed either a small army or three hungry alphas. Bobby cringed as he corrected himself. _Two alphas and an omega._

John straightened up, a similar thought obviously running through his head if his frown was any indication. "I better go check on the boys."

* * *

He found both of them resting on their beds upstairs. Dean was stretched out across his mattress, leaning against the headboard as he read some small pamphlet, obviously positioned in such a way that he could keep his brother in sight at all times. Not hard to do, considering that said brother was curled up tight in the fetal position on the other bed, his hair the only part of him visible outside the blanket.

Dean followed John's gaze to the youngest Winchester. "He's okay, Dad. Just fell asleep for real a little while ago. Probably won't wake up fully until eight or so."

Sam's sleepy voice immediately cut in to contradict him. "'m not asleep yet, Dean."

"Yeah, well, you _should_ be," Dean said. "You keep passing out in the middle of your sentences."

Sam yawned. "…jerk."

John smiled as he sat down on Sam's bed, resting his hand on his blanketed shoulder. "How are you, Sam?"

The blanket retracted until Sam's entire face was visible, and John's breath caught in his throat. The omega changes were pronounced than they had been last night, his jaw thinner, his features more delicate.

"'m okay. Just tired, 's all. What's th'–" another yawn– "th' plan? Got a new hunt?" He pushed himself into more of a sitting position, covers falling down further to pool around his waist. Dean's Stairway to Heaven shirt hung loose on him. It was like looking at Sam's 15-year-old doppelganger.

Cautiously, John slid his arm around Sam, hugging him gingerly. "In a manner of speaking. Sam, after what you've been through–" he felt the omega freeze up.

"'m fine," Sam muttered, distress radiating through the air in contradiction. Across the room, Dean sat up sharply, nostrils flaring.

John purposely let his alpha pheromones roll out, forcing Sam to relax. "I know you feel really confused right now, and that's okay. I don't _expect_ you to have all the answers. _None_ of us know what's supposed to happen next." He stared at Dean until the boy looked down, breaking the gaze.

"But there's no excuse for us not to." He tried to smell as certain as possible, letting his voice drop into the lower reassuring alpha ranges. "What's the first rule of any hunt?"

Dean smirked. "Don't get dead."

John rolled his eyes. "The _other_ first rule."

Sam squirmed out from under John's arm, scooting himself back to lean against the headboard and yanking the covers up around him like a shield. He sighed. "Nothing gets you dead like ignorance."

John smiled, ignoring the way his youngest refused to meet his eyes. "That's right. The first rule of hunting is to know what you're up against. So we're going to treat this like a hunt." He stood up and turned so he could face both of them at once.

"Sammy, you're on bed rest – don't argue, it's what your body needs right now. I'll bring up the laptop later on, and I expect you to research the most current omega regulations for Minnesota and South Dakota." He put on his best poker face, not wanting the omega to realize John already knew everything he was being asked to research.

"I got some books at the library for Dean and me to look through, too, although it looks like he's got a head start on me." He nodded toward the pamphlet crumpled in Dean's hand. "Tomorrow we'll regroup and decide on a course of action."

"I can start now, Dad," Sam volunteered, ducking his head down to try to hide the yawn that followed.

John shook his head. "I said _later_ , Sam. Your brother's right, you need sleep. Will you be okay if Dean and I go downstairs?"

"I'll be fine, Dad." The omega curled on his side, facing the door. "Despite what Dean thinks, I don't need a babysitter."

Dean muttered something dissenting under his breath as he reluctantly stood up.

"One of us will be up in a bit with the laptop, okay?" John tucked the blankets in around Sam, leaning in to kiss his forehead like he hadn't since the boy was maybe nine or ten. He paused, nose flaring to confirm what he thought he'd smelled. "If you need anything, just yell."

He shut the door lightly as he exited, leaving it slightly ajar.

* * *

Out in the hallway, he grabbed his alpha son by the arm and dragged him into the room where John had slept that morning. Dean didn't argue or protest, just looked sheepish as John shut the door behind them and quietly growled, _"Really?!"_

Dean had the decency to look embarrassed. "Well, there was this morning, with the shower and all… and then he took a second shower before he went to sleep, and–"

"You know that doesn't matter, right?" John leaned into Dean's space, forcing the alpha to look him in the eye. "Scent-marking is a function of biology. You do it once, it mixes with the omega's cells, and lasts for three to four days. _Not_ twelve hours. Christ, Dean, you're gonna give Sam a complex."

Dean shrugged. "He doesn't even know I did it. He was tossing and turning in his sleep. It seemed to make him feel better."

John sighed. "Dean, you've got him wrapped up head to toe smelling like you."

"I _know_ , Dad," Dean said, frustrated. "It's not exactly my idea of a fun time, either. I just – they took him, Dad, they _hurt_ him, and I can't stand the thought that he's not _safe_ even though I know–"

John put his hand on his son's shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. "I'm not mad at you, Dean, just worried." He dug inside his pocket with his free hand, pulling out a small packet. "These should help."

"Oh thank _god_." Dean took the nose plugs with noticeable relief, ripping the plastic cover and quickly inserting a filters into each nostril.

"Now come on." John clasped Dean's shoulder one more time, letting his pride ripple outwards and smiling as Dean stood straighter, basking in the approval. "Bobby's waiting for us downstairs. We've got work to do."


	13. Shifting Sands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's world continues to shift and change, internally and externally, and a number of plans are set in motion. You're either gonna love me or hate me, or both, by the end of this chapter.

Sam intended to rest an hour, maybe two at the most. His physiology, however, had different plans.

Within a few hours, the omega's fever returned in full force, lingering persistently right below the 105-degree danger line. The sleep that accompanied it was deep – though nowhere as bad as the prior night's ketamine-induced unconsciousness – but far from restful. Dean had probably been right about Sam pushing himself too far; he seemed drained and listless when awake and tossed and twisted about while asleep. All told, he roused maybe three or four times over the next sixteen hours, never for more than a half an hour at a time.

John felt like a coward, but he was grateful for the night's reprieve. He just… needed a little more time to grieve for his alpha son, even as he began taking the steps that he knew would earn him the enmity of his omega son.

Over the night that followed and well into the morning, Sam's body reordered and realigned itself. In grim parallel, Bobby's house and property echoed this transition as its residents adjusted its topography to accommodate Sam's new status.

In his bed, Sam's limbs flexed and contracted as his body devoured muscle for energy and cell matter, reconstituting it into the building blocks for the new organs budding in his abdomen. Saliva pooled out, dampening his pillow, as his jawline narrowed and his neck thinned. His brow furrowed as internal neural pathways remapped themselves and new synapses formed, his sleeping mind trapped in vague and ominous fever dreams.

John and Dean wisely took their brief but heated argument over Sam's clothes – whether he should continue to wear Dean's old clothes or John's new purchases – outside where they couldn't bother him. After John laid down the law, Dean conciliatorily removed his brother's old wardrobe. In its place, John deposited a significantly smaller pile of omega-specific clothes. He also left three bags containing items that he desperately hoped Sam would research on his own with the laptop, rather than asking his father to explain.

Out in the yard, Dean cursed as he screwed an omega post into the floor of the Impala's backseat. At first glance, it looked identical to the four he had already installed in the kitchen, living room, porch and front yard. However, while those were sturdy, designed to hold a leashed omega securely, close inspection revealed the car's post to be almost purely symbolic, designed to break away in case of an accident to prevent choking or injury. Dean hated them all, but somehow the innocuous metal hook in the Chevy's frame seemed like a betrayal of the worst kind, a desecration of the only home he and Sam had ever known.

If Bobby saw John's eyes tear up as he took Sam's old clothes out to the Impala, he said nothing. And if Dean sat silently in the living room, head in hands, before turning and savagely punching the couch next to him, the older hunter reasoned it was no one's business but Dean's.

About six hours into Sam's fever, the clouds of pheromones released by his overworked sweat glands finally began to seep past John's nose filters. Disgust and guilt warred with unwanted arousal in the older man. Worse still, the omega wasn't awake to prevent his instinctive reactions to John's alpha scent. Still fast asleep, Sam rolled onto his stomach, thrusting his half-hard cock forward into the mattress and then wantonly pushing his ass into the air in the throes of involuntary arousal. As the smell of slick flowered in the room, John opened the window and retreated, carefully looking anywhere besides the bed. Unconscious and instinctual it might be (there was a reason turning parties sometimes lasted days), his body's behavior would nonetheless horrify Sam, and John resolved silently never to tell him.

Safely downstairs, John carried the fourth chair from the kitchen table to the garage, leaving a large padded pillow in its place. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, he knelt down on it for a moment. Sam would barely be able to see over the table unless he knelt at full attention, and then only just. Frustrated, he stood up and angrily kicked the pillow across the floor. A moment later, he sighed and retrieved it, stuffing one of his old shirts into the middle pocket like Jody had recommended.

Nearby in the living room, Dean and Bobby coughed at the haze of dust that filled the air as they rearranged the hunter's carefully stacked piles of books to make room for two more pillows by the couches and a fourth in the corner of the room where Dean had placed the omega post. "Bookshelves," Bobby muttered to himself, staring at the empty corner, figuring out measurements in his head. He had no doubt Sam was going to end up there more than a few times for some kind of insubordination or other. Might as well give the kid a chance to be useful with research at the same time. It wasn't that common for omegas to read, but there was nothing in the laws against letting the ones that could do so.

All told, Sam lost another seven pounds and another quarter-inch of height, along with the remaining stubble on his jaw. Dean and John primarily lost sleep, getting a few hours each at best as they watched and worked in shifts. It would take days before each Winchester fully felt the magnitude of what had been lost, and even longer before they could discover what still remained.

* * *

"Hey, Dad," Dean asked quietly in the darkened living room. Bobby was up watching Sam, so the two of them were downstairs letting the pheromones clear out. They were both exhausted, and supposed to be sleeping, but neither was doing a very good job of it.

John sat up in his recliner and looked over at his son, who had propped himself up with one elbow over on the couch. "What's up?"

Dean paused. He wanted to ask his father how he was doing, knew this whole thing had to be doing a number on him, but alphas didn't _talk_ about their feelings.

"I've been so focused on Sammy, I never really thought –" he grasped for the right words– "is there anything _more_ I should be doing to provide support for the pack? Seems like you've been doin' all the hard work all day, while I've just been doin' what I normally do, looking after th' kid."

John smiled. "That's exactly what you should be doing, Dean. I've got the rest handled, it's my responsibility." He glanced thoughtfully over at Dean's pensive face. "Although…"

"Yeah?" Dean asked quickly.

"I had to use up a lot of our cash on hand on all those supplies for Sam. I'm not sure just when we'll be able to act on it, but… I saw an opportunity to make some of it back and then some today, but it'd be an easier sell coming from you."

"Yeah, totally," Dean said enthusiastically. "If you think I'm good enough…"

"I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise," John nodded, suddenly drowsy. "It wouldn't hurt you to brush up on your poker face, though. This would be a long con, bunch of spoiled little trust-fund alphas with money to burn. Law's not exactly inclined to feel sorry for 'em, either."

"Sweet!" Dean was unexpectedly energized by the prospect of being able to provide for the pack. John was hiding it well, but he was worried for and about Sam. Now more than ever they would need to build up their finances. They had an omega to think about.

John yawned. "Try to rest, Dean. Bobby's on watch upstairs. You can stand down for now."

Dean lay back, closed his eyes, and tried to will himself to sleep.

* * *

"John's youngest?" Pastor Jim sounded shocked when he returned Bobby's call. Not that Bobby could blame him for it – he still found it hard to fathom himself. "Why, how…"

Bobby sighed, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Sam as he walked down the hallway. "That's John's story to tell, not mine," he said, more curtly than he'd intended. "But yeah, now y'see why I asked for that favor."

"Not much of a favor, Bobby, I'm happy to help Sam any way I can. Your memory wasn't wrong, there are a couple of hunters that base themselves up near Hibbing, maybe even in it. Steve Bose's the one that comes to mind right off the bat, but he's a beta. Not likely to get invited to something like that. I'll go over my notes, see if I can find contact information for the others. If you want the names of the people involved, I'm sure one of them would know."

"I'd rightly appreciate, Jim, and I know John will too."

Bobby heard the pastor breathe in deeply. "Give John my regards, and my sympathy. If there's anything I can do… I could probably come for a visit in a few weeks if you think Sam might want counseling…" he trailed off.

"Doin' what yer doin' is more'n enough help right now, but I'll let John know about the offer. He might take y' up on it once things are under control. Just, do us both a favor–"

Jim laughed humorlessly as he finished Bobby's sentence. "–Keep my inquiries discreet, I know. I can't imagine that any of the men I've met would be part of a turning, but–" he sighed– "we all know hunting can turn you hard if you aren't careful."

Bobby thought on that as he dropped the phone back in its cradle. He wasn't sure what Jim was talking about – he didn't know a single hunter outside of maybe Dean who wasn't hardened by the life already. But hard didn't have to mean evil.

It just sometimes did.

* * *

"Stupid kid. You _always_ get sick like this." Dean sat at Sam's bed, grousing fondly as Sam groggily rubbed his eyes and sat up. "You don't do it often, but when you do it's always, 'I'm _fine_ , Dean. I don't need to stay _home_ , Dean. I have to go to _school_ to turn this project in, Dean. I need to go to the _shooting range_ , Dean.' And every single time you go, and then you end up twice as sick later on. _Always._ So tell me, why the fuck do I fall for it every single time?"

"Just plain dumb, I guess." Sam breathed in his brother's concern and relief, letting it warm him inside even as his own disheveled state made him flinch.

"Yeah, that must be it," Dean smiled and tousled Sam's hair. "Welcome back, kiddo. You did a number on yourself, been out for almost thirteen hours."

Sam believed him. His skin felt gross, somehow simultaneously hot and clammy. His tongue seemed swollen and thickly coated, and he could smell his body's sweat and funk. There was another scent underlying that, too, heavy and present, something as-yet-unidentified that...

Slick.

_"Fuck."_ Sam all but flung himself out of bed, ignoring the vertigo that fluttered up through his stomach. His foot slipped on the sheets and slid out from under him, sending him careening down –

Dean caught him, all but pressing their chests together as he lunged forward to grab him before Sam could hit the floor. "Gotcha, Sammy."

Sam flushed as his brother helped him to his feet, relieved when he finally let go and stood back. "Jus' wanna get clean," he muttered, hating how _off_ he felt. "I stink."

"You do," Dean agreed amiably. "That's fine, just back to bed after." He yelled after the quickly retreating omega, "Dad says nothin' but bed rest and – if yer up to it – research today."

Sam held it together until the bathroom door clicked shut, then let himself act as miserable as he felt. Yesterday he'd made himself face the mirror; today, he avoided it _(coward)_. He relieved himself _(sit down to pee, it's easier, and you can just, you don't have to think about it, just let gravity pull everything down and don't think about how you don't have to tuck your balls out of the way, don't think about the new angle, the shorter length, and for god's sake don't think about anything else that might be going on down there)_ and showered as quickly and perfunctorily _( _careful around the brand and your... elsewhere... and try not to let your hands brush your ears as you wash your hair_ )_ as he could. Then and only then, wrapped in a towel as body armor, did he feel like could he face the mirror.

The mirror didn't make anything better. The parasite had won new ground.

Sam looked at his face, his neck, his jaw, twisting his head from side to side. He drew himself up tall and scowled at the impostor in the mirror. The impostor glared back. "I see you," Sam intoned, using the counter-top to hold himself steady. "I _see_ you, you son of a bitch, and I'm not giving in."

"What was that?" Sam jumped as Dean's bass voice resonated in from the other room. "Need something, Sammy?"

He paused and collected himself. "No, everything's okay."

"Awesome," Dean said, his voice a lot closer. "I changed the sheets and put some fresh boxers by the door for you. Go ahead and get back in bed. I'll be up with something to eat."

When Dean returned a few minutes later, protein shake in hand, Sam was poking curiously through the purchases John had left for him.

"What's all this, Dean?" He lifted one of the pairs of linen pants suspiciously, holding them up to the light. They were a brownish-tan, and soft against his skin, but appeared far more complicated than his old jeans had been. It kind of looked like they were designed to not need underwear? There was a weird jock-strap-like cup sewn into it, with straps that wrapped around each leg right below the butt, and the crotch had a pocket that ran the length of it. They didn't zip in the middle, either, but had two sets of snaps running parallel down the hips.

"Huh?" Dean cocked his head. "Oh yeah, Dad went shopping for you yesterday. Omega stuff, I guess."

Sam grimaced, shoving the pants and other clothing into one of the bags and pushing it all away from him. "He can return them. I don't need any specialized crap."

"Yeah?" Dean held the shake up to Sam's mouth, but pulled it away out of reach when Sam grabbed for it. "How would you know?"

"Know _what_?" Sam scowled as Dean again pulled the drink away. "Stop being a dick, Dean."

The alpha lowered the shake a third time, straw dangling right by Sam's mouth. "Ah-ah-ah, just drink, Sam. Your hands are still shaky, and I just changed the sheets. I'm not having you spill this all over the bed." He smiled as his brother sullenly sipped at the straw. "What I meant was, you conked out before you could get any research done last night, and you've barely been awake since. How would you _know_ what you need?"

The vanilla shake actually tasted pretty good, but Sam had lost his appetite. Seeing the pants, with their weird cock-sock and the easy-access rows of snaps down the sides, had left him anxious and nauseous. "What, dad's suddenly some kind of expert now?" He pursed his lips and turned his head away from the straw.

Dean held the drink stubbornly up to the omega's cheek, prodding him until he turned to take another long sip.

"Seriously, Dean, this is creepy," Sam protested. "I'm not a baby. I can feed myself."

His brother ignored him. "Not sayin' y' can't, just sayin' y' _aren't_. I can stand here all morning, so quit being a bitch."

Sam looked up at his brother, at the obvious circles under his eyes, his rumpled hair, the wrinkled clothing he'd was wearing – had been wearing since yesterday. "Yeah, right. You're not exactly steady yourself. Did you get _any_ sleep last night at all?"

"Things to do, Sammy," Dean yawned. "And the sooner you finish this, the sooner I can try to get some shuteye, so _drink._ At least three more sips." He shoved the straw back into Sam's face.

The omega took exactly three sips, no more, then leaned back on the bed, kicking out at the blanket to "accidentally" knock the bags down off it, onto the ground.

"Really?" Dean asked pointedly. "Is it gonna kill you so much just to look through those?" From the set of Sam's jaw, it was clear that he thought it just might. "This is _Dad_ , Sam." His voice rose, becoming not quite an outright yell, but close. " _Wear-it-until-you-wear-it-out_ Dad. Y'know, the reason you had to wear that terrible t-shirt with the smiling puppy on it through eighth grade just because it still fit. The guy who made you wear _my_ hand-me-downs until I purposely started tearing some of 'em up so you wouldn't look out of place at school. _That_ Dad."

Dean paused, slowly breathing in and out as he visibly calmed himself. "And yet _that_ Dad _somehow_ thought all of this stuff was important enough to buy, even though he had to use cash and not any of the credit cards. So _maybe_ , just _maybe_ , you oughta cut Dad a break and _show a little freakin' gratitude instead_."

Sam sucked in his breath, looking for a moment like he was going to argue. Then his face cleared and he laughed.

"Thanks," he said with a smile. Realizing Dean had stopped guarding the shake, he grabbed it and quickly sucked the rest down, keeping a firm grip on it with both hands.

Dean sighed, not unfondly. "Thanks fer what, tellin' you to get your head outta yer ass? _Anytime._ " He made a half-hearted grab for the glass, smiling as Sam played keep-away.

"For treating me like _me_ , Dean." Sam slurped at the straw, clearing the dregs from the bottom, then yawned again. "For getting mad at me, and yelling, and being a jerk, instead of treating me like some fucking delicate flower."

Dean smiled as his brother held the glass up for him to take. "Keep passing out on me like this and I will." He poked the omega's shoulder. "Hey! No sleeping just yet, Sammy."

He went to the bathroom and rinsed the glass, ignoring the pointed _"It's SAM!_ " behind him.

"There's painkillers by the bed for you," he yelled as he filled the cup with water, "and Dad says there should be a bottle of vitamins in one of the bags as well." He padded back into the room and handed the glass back to Sam. "Drink it all. You gotta re-hydrate yourself."

Sam tossed Dean a challenging look and swallowed the painkillers dry, as if just to prove he could, then sipped at the water. Then his shoulders slumped as he sighed, "I'll take the vitamins later."

Making sure to telegraph his movements, Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezed it lightly. "You doin' okay, kid?"

Sam paused for a moment, looking down and away from Dean as he nodded.

_"Riiight,"_ Dean said. "Well, if ya wanna talk or need something, just yell." He took the empty glass back and then stretched. "Dad said sleep as long as you need to, but once you're up, you gotta get on that research."

"Okay." Sam looked at the laptop, and the pile of bags. He wasn't ready to face reality yet, maybe ever. "Gonna sleep again first." He pulled the sheet up over his shoulder and turned to face the wall.

Dean knew Sam was avoiding the issue, but right then he himself was too tired to care. So he balled up the dirty sheets to take them and the glass downstairs, tossing out a final admonishment behind him as he left. _"…And look through the freakin' bags when you wake up, too!"_

* * *

"–you want me to do _what_ now?"

Bobby looked over at Dean and John's sleeping forms and walked over to the window to close the curtains against the afternoon sun, then moved into the kitchen before speaking. "Same gig we pulled over in Billings five years ago, Rufus. Get your grey Fed suit – not that crappy blue one you used last time, the grey one that actually looks like something a government agent would be seen in – and hightail it over to Hibbing."

" _'Hibbing, Minnesota'_ Hibbing?" Rufus's rich baritone sounded amused, not upset, but he didn't sound particularly agreeable, either. "And I'll have you know that blue suit is perfectly in style."

Bobby snorted. "Maybe if you're plannin' on goin' to yer junior prom _twenty years ago_."

" _Either way_ ," Rufus continued pointedly, "I'm south of San Diego on a job. Earliest I could leave is tomorrow, and that's _if_ I can find the right grave tonight. Surely you got someone closer you could blackmail into this."

"No one I trust, Rufus," Bobby intoned. "Jim's looking into some local hunters, but for all we know, they're friends with the people behind it."

"I don't know…" Rufus trailed off.

"Look, it's simple recon, in and out." Bobby rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. "You don't have to go all fancy on the lying or nothin', just say you're following up on an incident report and do some interviews."

"Lotta nerve there, asking me for a favor and then telling me how to do my damn job," Rufus grumbled.

The older hunter yawned. "Sorry 'bout that. So damn tired right now I've prob'ly got m' pants on backwards."

Rufus chuckled. "Ain't promising nothing, Bobby, but I'll see what I can do."

* * *

_(Elsewhere)_

"What do you mean, 'leave 'em be'?" Lee paced furiously, each pass twisting the ratty throw rug under his feet a little more askew. "Didn't you see what they did to Pa?! I've still got a fuckin' omega brand healing on my chest – Earle says it might even scar!"

"Hank said leave 'em be for now, so frickin' _leave 'em be_." Jared waved his splinted fingers at his brother from the couch where he was sitting, feet propped up on the coffee table. "Y' think I ain't pissed about it? Look at this shit!"

"Oh, boo-fuckin'-hoo, ain't like you got a mark on you sayin' yer a goddamn _O_!" Lee yelled. He kicked the coffee table sideways, making Jared's feet fall to the floor with a _thud_. Both of them froze for a moment at the incoherent whimper from the bedroom, relaxing when nothing further came.

_"So?"_ Jared said to Lee's back, waving the hand even though he couldn't see it as he paced. "Still hurts, don' it? Least yers got cotter-ized, no pain a'tall. Does make ya look like a pussy, though." He paused. "Still not as bad as Pa. We got lucky."

Lee stopped mid-step and whirled around, yelling, " _We_ didn't get lucky, that _O_ did, and we ain't shouldn't be lettin' him get away with it. We should be getting' the boys together and trackin' their asses down. They cain't be too far away, right? Prob'ly holed up near some O-shop. We find 'm, take 'm out, 'n take that fuckin' O back here where he belongs."

In the master bedroom, Pa moaned loudly, then suddenly choked off into a whimper.

"Leave it _alone_ , Pa!" Jared yelled, banging on the wall with his good hand. "Doc says ya gotta let it heal! Don't make me go strap yer fool arms down."

It was a vicious cycle; the painkillers numbed both Pa's knot and his brain. He'd forget the reason he was on painkillers, then touch himself and be instantly reminded of what the painkillers were numbing.

"Goddam it, I'm sick of jest sittin' around with our _thumbs_ up our asses!" Lee yelled. "I _told_ that boy I was gonna make him the town bitch, and I aim to see it through. Get a chain an' muzzle with his name on it all set up by the town stocks. See how many days it takes th' town to fuck a proper attitude inta him."

Jared clapped his hands together, forgetting about the splints, and yelped as the broken bones ground together. "Fuck, shit, ow, _goddamn_ Christ on a motherfucking crucifix! Okay, fine, we'll talk t' Hank tomorrow. Call Roger 'n get Missy out here t' sit with Pa while we's gone."

"Don't get Missy," Lee warned. "Roger keeps her so knot-hungry she'd prob'ly try t' mount Pa in his sleep. See if Earle can bring Allie around instead."

Jared laughed. "Allie's in the stocks. Earle shoved him in there the minute he got home and smelled them other alphas on him."

_"Fuck!"_ Lee started pacing again.

"I can see if Zeb can send his beta by," Jared offered. "That good enough for ya?"

Lee rubbed absently at the bandage on his chest. "No, not really. But okay. Tomorrow." He walked over to the door, pulling on his grey flannel overshirt.

"I thought y' said tomorrow?" Jared yelled at his back.

"I did," Lee said. "Ain't no reason I can't go down t' the stocks in the meantime, right? You watch Pa 'til I get back, then you can shake _yer_ knot."

Jared laughed darkly. "Yeah, sure. Ain't like Allie's goin' nowhere. Fuck, we can probably both get seconds in tomorrow before we talk t' Hank."

"Fuck yeah," Lee smiled back viciously. "And maybe tell Ham t' start building a second stockade for when we get back."

As the door clicked shut, Pa moaned loudly again. Jared banged his good hand on the table. "Fer chrissakes, Pa, keep yer damn hands _off_ it!"


	14. Informed Non-Consent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam investigates the packages John left, and finally has a long-overdue conversation with John. It goes about as well as either expected.

"You've reached the Admissions Department of Stanford University. If you are a current or incoming Stanford undergraduate or graduate student, please press 1 or say 'student.' If you are not a current student but are interested in applying to the university, please press 2 or say 'applicant.' For all other matters, please press 0 or say 'operator'."

"Operator."

"Please hold." Click. _"-nd tan and young and lovely, the O from Ipanema goes walking, and when he passes, each one he passes goes ah–"_ Click.

"Stanford University admissions department. How may I help you today?"

_Sigh_. "I'm the father of one of your incoming freshmen. He's– there's been a… medical complication."

* * *

Sam was alone when he woke up, and the house was quiet. The other bed in the room was empty.

Cautiously, he slid to the edge of the bed and sat up, waiting for vertigo to reappear. When the world stayed obediently on its proper axis, he stood up, awkwardly conscious of his near-nudity. The sheets he'd slept in were rank with sweat despite Dean having changed them earlier that morning. He pushed them to the ground distastefully and glanced around, scowling when he realized Dean's duffel was gone, as were his old clothes. The only clothing left in the room were the strange omega-wear his father had purchased.

Through the window, he could see Bobby down in the yard, adjusting something under the hood of his pickup truck. He pulled back out of sight as the man stood up, then padded carefully over to the door, giving John's purchases a wide berth as he did. He looked at the door, then with a sigh looked back at the bags. After glancing into the hall and confirming that the other bedrooms were empty, he closed the door tightly and moved to lock it.

_The lock had been removed._

He didn't need a lock anyway. Clad defiantly in only the boxers Dean had given him earlier, Sam moved to the bed that smelled faintly of Dean and pulled the covers over him, glaring at the innocuous-seeming bags on the floor.

After about five minutes, he sighed and flipped the covers off, enjoying the cool air against his skin after the way the sheets had begun to irritate him. He didn't remember them feeling that rough in the past, but it shouldn't have surprised him – drunken recluses like Bobby didn't exactly tend to care about things like thread counts.

All too quickly, though, the coolness became oppressive. Naked – _he was all but naked_. His heart began pounding. If anyone saw… He shuddered, eyes flickering back to the unlockable door.

He wrapped the bedding around him like a shroud, then collapsed quietly but gracelessly on the ground, legs trembling. His father and Dean were downstairs, he reminded himself. They had to be. Anyone coming in would have to go through them. He was safe.

_No_. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to clear it. That was the parasite talking. Sam was safe because he was strong, he was a hunter, and he could fight. He was still _Sam_ , and he wasn't afraid of any made-up boogeyman his mind could throw at him.

_Breathe in, hold, release._ Just like Jim taught them. Focus your breathing, clear your mind, slow your heartbeat. Control your body to control your emotions. Control your emotions to control your reactions. Control your reactions to be in control.

_Be in control, not be controlled._

The scent of fear around him diminished. With a hand that was almost steady, he reached out, grabbed the packages John had left and pulled them close. Then he scooted backwards with them until he was wedged in next to the bed with his back against the wall and a clear view to the door, and opened the first bag.

It wasn't… it wasn't as bad as he had imagined. One bag was almost all clothing – pants, shirts, boxers and socks. Another bag held unopened sheets, the omega vitamins Dean had mentioned, some other drug-store-looking packages and a pair of open-toed sandals made out of some flexible, soft fabric. The pants were all brown or black, and all the same creepy style he'd looked at before, but the shirts weren't bad. They were all kind of flowery poet-shirt type things, entirely impractical for combat or even hiking in the woods, but they could be buttoned up to cover the majority of his skin, at least.

He took a deep breath, dropping the clothing back down and reaching for the third bag. The black boots registered first – that same soft leather, warmer than the sandals but with soles that would never survive a walk across gravel or any particularly rocky surface. And below the boots…

Below the boots…

_Breathe in, hold, release._

Soft brown, leather, with a D-ring at the front and a simple chain leash clipped to it.

_Be in control, not be controlled._

Below the boots was a collar.

It wasn't exactly unexpected. Omegas wore collars. Everyone knew that. And Sam… Sam was an omega now. So it wasn't like he hadn't _(collar's to remind him what he is, a'course)_ hadn't known what was coming.

Except, well, maybe he'd hoped... hoped John would…

He forced himself to pick up the innocuous strip of leather _(this is who you are now)_. The D-ring jingled against the leash as he lifted it up and released the leash, placing it carefully on the floor without looking at it. He couldn't help an involuntary shudder as the links clinked together.

Sam held the collar in both hands, tried to lift it up to his neck experimentally, but he wasn't _(a good bitch)_ – he couldn't –

It didn't even weigh a pound, but he couldn't lift it past his chest.

Cocooned in his blanket, with no one around to have to prove himself to, Sam clutched the collar to his stomach and curled down around it, giving silent reign to his grief.

* * *

Bobby found Sam there about half an hour later, still sitting with his head and shoulders bowed down over his midsection. The beta shifted his weight, holding the mug of soup with both hands as he finally got a chance to look at Sam now that the external changes from the turning were all but complete.

He was pretty, that was for sure, delicate features and long lashes over a pale complexion, but he also looked like shit – washed-out and worn down, ragged and grief-stricken even in sleep, with dark circles under his eyes and tear tracks down his cheeks. Bobby hated to wake him. On the other hand, food couldn't help but improve the situation.

He sighed loudly. "Y'can't tell me that's comfortable, kid."

He'd assumed the omega was asleep, so Sam's immediate panicked gasp – _like a drowning man reaching for his last mouthful of air_ – was as much as surprise to the older hunter as it was to the kid himself. Sam slammed himself backwards into the wall, flinging the flappy jingling thing he'd been holding in his right hand straight at Bobby's head. At the same time, his left hand shot down to his ankle, groping for the knife he normally kept there.

Hot soup slopped across the beta's right hand as he dodged left to avoid the projectile. He wisely kept his distance as Sam's hand felt around for the missing knife and slowly stilled as his breathing eased.

The omega looked up, brow furrowed. "Bobby? I–"

Bobby transferred the soup to his left hand and wiped the right on his jeans. "Not your fault, Sam. Just what I get for sneakin' up on a hunter."

"'s not exactly sneaking when you can walk right up to them," Sam scoffed darkly. He tightened the bedding around him and looked down. "I shouldn't have gotten lost in my thoughts."

Bobby looked down at him skeptically. "If you say so." He placed the soup down on the ground in front of Sam, then sat on the stripped-down bed. "So… for _real_ , how are you doin'? And don't go blowin' smoke up my ass, I ain't that big a fool."

Sam looked down at the soup dubiously. He didn't feel hungry, but he knew he should eat. After a moment, he picked it up reluctantly and sipped at it, relieved when the salty chicken broth didn't make his stomach churn.

"Not good, y'know?" His lips parted in a smile that almost immediately faded from his face. "I mean, I don't know if I'm ever going to feel like I'm _good_ again, all things considered." He sipped at the soup, swirling it around broodily as he stared at it while the older hunter said nothing. "But.. I'm okay. I'm _here_ , not back in H-Hibbing. That counts for something, right?"

He drank a little more of the broth, lost in thought. "I'm just trying – I want to focus on what I still _have_ , instead of everything I've lost. But it's hard getting Dean and Dad to listen."

The two sat in silence as Sam drank the soup. When the mug was empty, he put it down on the floor resolutely and took a deep breath. "Bobby, can I…" His voice grew firmer. "I need my knives back."

Sam's fists clenched and unclenched restlessly as he met Bobby's gaze head on. "Just one, even. Just _something_ so I'm not so fucking helpless. I can't… I can't be sitting around defenseless like this. I can't _take_ it. I asked Dean, but–"

The older beta held up his hand. "I get where you're coming from, kid, but… I don't think it's a good idea, and I think you know that as well as I me. You _really_ think you got your head on straight enough to not pull another Van Gogh?" He raised his eyebrows, staring pointedly at Sam's bandaged ear.

Sam's fingers instinctively sought out the bandage, and his face fell, eyes skittering away to one side as his cheeks colored. "…No. Not really. I wish it was, but… sometimes it's all I can do not to scream." He shrank back in on himself, pulling the baby blue blanket – one of Karen's, he noted absently, from back when she'd hoped to talk Bobby into kids – in around him.

The boy wrapped his arms around his knees and looked down at his feet, rocking slightly. "I prob'ly will, sooner or later," he whispered, shame lacing his voice. "Scream, that is. Or something worse. I don't _mean_ to, it just… happens. Like at lunch."

Bobby nodded somberly. "Same way yer 'welcome' to me five minutes ago 'just happened'… I'm sorry, Sam." He gingerly patted the boy's shoulder. "It's only natural after what you've been through. Don't make it any easier to hear, I know, but we're just concerned about what's best for you."

Even as it passed his lips, Bobby knew it was the wrong thing to say. Sam's eyes flashed and he sat back up, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. The boy might be an omega, but his posture was pure alpha. Undermined more than a little by his significantly more diminutive stature… and the blankets wrapped around him that made him look even younger… but it was Sam's old alpha attitude nonetheless.

"I thought we were skipping the bullshit, Bobby," his voice hardened, "or does that rule only apply to me, _like everything else lately_ , 'cause what's best for me is being able to feel like I can defend myself."

Bobby stood up as Sam's voice raised, frowning down at the omega. He was kicking himself almost as soon as it was done for giving in to the instinctual _(puff up, loom over, assert control)_ dominance reaction – last thing the kid needed, another reminder that he was at the bottom of the food chain. "Dammit, kid, we're trying to keep you _safe_."

Sam scowled, pushing himself to his feet so he could sit on the bed – a nonverbal challenge that Bobby made himself ignore. "Who's blowing smoke now, Bobby? Dad's been telling me since I was eight that there are more important things than being safe and _now_ all of a sudden it matters?"

He snorted. "It's not like being in this house makes me exactly safe." He ticked off his points on his fingers. "All of us have things we hunted that got away, that are going to come looking to collect sometime. And that's assuming we don't manage to hurt ourselves before they can, because I'm not the only one around here who wakes up badly. Shotgun's the first thing you reach for when you get startled unexpectedly, and don't deny it, I've seen it. And _Dean_ – Dean comes up swinging more often 'n not the morning after a hunt, it's how I got my first black eye and he's never forgiven himself for it." He lifted his chin up, jaw quivering in determination as he stared at the older man. "And I was only six when Dean taught me never to shake Dad awake."

Sam leaned back, lips twisted into a sneer. "A tour in the Marines and a life just this side of suicidal hunting things that leave you screaming in the night for weeks after has gotta be more dangerous than an 18-year-old alpha stupid enough to get bitched. Yet _he_ still gets to keep a loaded semi-auto under his pillow and I can't keep a fucking _knife_ under mine?"

He laughed mirthlessly. "Don't lie and tell me it's for my own good, like I'm too dumb to know what that is. It's just one more goddamn way to remind me that what I need or want doesn't mean _shit_ anymore."

The omega met Bobby's stare and held it, hazel eyes glinting dark green in the light. "You _know_ I can just find one in the house, same way I found a gun yesterday. I didn't have to ask you – you've got too many weapons stashed around this place to keep them all hidden away. I asked as a _courtesy_ , because… because I wanted you to treat me like a goddamn human being."

He sighed. "I'm still _me_ , Bobby. A week ago, you wouldn't have thought twice about this."

The older hunter exhaled sharply. "A week ago you wanted nothing more than to walk away from huntin' and never pick up a weapon again, kid."

The omega flinched as if the older hunter had slapped him. _Stanford._ How could he have forgotten? He hadn't even… "Bobby, about that–"

His next words were lost in the heavy thud of footsteps coming up the stairs.

Sam looked down guiltily. He wasn't ready for John – or, god forbid, _Dean_ – from finding out about that yet. Not until he knew what his options were.

Bobby nodded sympathetically. "No promises, but I'll see what I can do. On both fronts."

The footsteps stopped in front of Sam's door, followed promptly by a knock. "Sam? You awake?"

Bobby picked up the empty mug and turned to go. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the thing Sam had thrown at him earlier – a collar, no wonder the kid was on edge – but decided to leave it where it lay.

"I know it doesn't feel that way right now, Sam, but–"

"Don't," the omega said flatly. "Just… don't." He shook his head dispiritedly, pointedly looking out the window. Behind him, the door opened, followed by a hushed conversation held just out of hearing range, and then Sam was aware of all the stress and anger hanging in the air as his father walked in.

"Sam," John said, and Sam couldn't help it, he wanted to keep looking out the window but his head swiveled back at the sound of the alpha's voice like he was some kind of goddamned dog.

"Sam," his father said again, and there was worry and concern in the air around him. Worry, and concern… and guilt, and resolve, like he was steeling himself for – _oh._

Sam made himself meet his father's gaze and not look away, dreading the conversation to follow.

"Hey dad."

* * *

"Take it easy on him, John," Bobby'd said as they'd passed in the hall. "The kid's had a hard time of it. He needs his dad right now, not his alpha." And oh, John ached to just hold his boy and apologize for not being able to prevent what had happened, to tell him he'd find a way to make it all better.

If only there were any such way.

But then there was Jody's advice – _"Rip off the Band-Aid and let him hate you."_ Better to be hated and keep your son than to be kind and lose him. If those were his only options, he knew which one he'd pick.

More of Jody's counsel echoed around in his head as he entered the bedroom. _"Omegas need clarity and direction. Say what you expect him to do and be specific. Lots of positive reinforcement for anything he did right. If you didn't tell him something as a direct order, don't punish him for not doing it, even if he should have known better. Correct him and tell him your expectations from then on out. Be firm, then supportive… Be his alpha."_

The room stank of distress and sorrow, potent even through John's nose filters.

_Be his alpha._

John smiled sadly – it'd been a long time since he'd been grateful to a cop for sticking their nose into Winchester business.

Not that this ever should have been Winchester business. Christ, he had no idea how to have this conversation he was apparently about to have, had in fact been so goddamn relieved that he would never have to have it when both boys originally presented as alpha. _If only Mary –_

He shook his head. Mary would have wanted him to keep her boys safe, and he'd already failed once at that. He couldn't fail a second time.

John sat down on the far end of the bed. Before, it would have been the minimum space necessary to keep the peace between two alphas; now, the trail of distressed pheromones made him want to sweep the young omega into his arms and scent him thoroughly. But even though his instincts were beginning to have less difficulty separating his strong alpha son from the slender, lithe young omega before him, John still couldn't reconcile the difference intellectually. He kept as much distance as his instincts would let him, and hated every minute of it.

Sam's instincts told him the opposite. He scooched further away from John until he was leaning up against the headboard of the bed, pulling the sheet tighter around him. The anger that had been permeating the room seemed to have sapped away upon John's arrival, dissipating under the muted scents of embarrassment and shame.

John glanced around the room, trying to project an aura of comfort and confidence he in no way felt as he groped for a place to start. Finally, his eyes settled on the piles of clothing and omega purchases.

"You've gone through the bags I left for you – that's good. I'm glad to see it. Let's see…" He leaned down toward the piles and rifled through them until he found the still-sealed, plastic white bottle of vitamins. It rattled in his grasp as he handed it to Sam, marveling at the still-long but now slender digits that had replaced Sam's thick, meaty alpha grip.

"Dean said you hadn't started taking these yet." He kept his voice steady, ignoring any irritation at the unbroken seal – Dean's order should have been enough for Sam to obey, really. "They're meant to be taken twice a day, so start them with dinner tonight and then breakfast and dinner every day from now on, no exceptions. Understood?"

John raised his eyes, finally looking directly into Sam's. The boy stared back, his expression guarded. A born omega would have averted his gaze in submission before looking back up – another thing John would need to teach him, he thought sadly. If Sam had presented as O originally, there would have been time for him to learn all those nonverbal cues and reactions.

After another few moments, Sam finally broke eye contact, nodding silently as his eyes traced down to the pills and then back to John. "Sure, okay."

"Good, that's good." He ran his fingers through his hair, realized he was talking too fast, made himself consciously slow down. "I know it's a lot to take in, but I'm sure you'll be able to handle it. I tried to be thorough, but let me know if there's any special omega supplies you'll need that I missed." He reached out and gripped Sam's shoulder, shaking it lightly.

Tried not to take it personally when Sam flinched.

"How… how's the research?" Such a simple question, he'd asked it a hundred times before. Usually Sam would already have been engrossed in it and have preliminary findings to report back.

Sam shrugged. "Didn't start it yet… I really only woke up about half an hour ago."

Something in the boy's eyes flickered, like maybe it wasn't quite the _whole_ truth, but there was no real guile in his pose or scent, so John accepted it as primarily true and let it slide. "You awake enough for it now?"

Sam shrugged again, one hand curving down to grip the elbow on his other arm. It was a defensive stance, one Sam used to make a lot back before he'd presented, a way of protecting his core and closing himself off when he wasn't sure if he was in trouble. After his alpha kicked in, Sam had stopped doing it, instead going on the attack when he was insecure. Seeing this reversion to older patterns of behavior made John's soul ache. The boy looked so young, and so lost.

"If you need to sleep again, go ahead, it's okay." John blinked. That – wasn't what he'd meant to say. He'd intended to tell Sam to try to stay awake and reset his system. But somehow one look at the boy and…

He shook his head, ignoring Sam's curious glance, and verbally corrected course. "But you _should_ be over the worst of the change, so even if you sleep now, I expect you to get on that research by tonight. As an omega, there are just things that society is going to expect of you, and we – all of us – we need to be prepared. I know it's not fair, but it is what it is."

John hopped off the bed and walked over to the other nightstand to retrieve the laptop. "We can wait until tomorrow morning to talk strategy, but no longer." He dropped the computer on the bed in front of Sam, then sat down heavily on the other side.

"I want you to compile a solid list of all the regulations and requirements you'll need to meet," John continued, "as well as your recommendations for how you'll accomplish them and what support you think you'll need from us. Then we'll talk it over like always, the three of us, and figure out a plan of attack."

Was he really doing Sam any favors by perpetuating the illusion that there were choices to be made? Bobby had argued against it, but John liked to think he knew his son a little better than the beta did. The boy had always functioned best when he could scout out the information at hand and come to his own conclusions. Even when there was only one conclusion that could be drawn.

John drummed his fingers on the laptop. "Bobby says Minnesota has a six-week retraining period for new omegas, but I figure if you were good enough to get straight As in school all those years–" _there was a quick burst of happiness from Sam–_ "there's no reason you can't master a bunch of simple omega standards in four weeks." _–happiness quickly smothered by guilt and apprehension as John continued,_ "I want to be back on the road in a month."

_On the road._ He had no idea how they were going to handle hunting with an omega in tow. Sam could stay in the hotel room, he supposed, or at whatever house they rented. It'd be nice to come home to cooked meals and a clean space. In the short-term, anyway – long-term, the boy would need a permanent home and a mate.

Sam had once again shrunk in on himself, no doubt at the stark reminder of his new reality. John's mind flashed back to the omegas he'd seen at the club. Not just _any_ mate for Sam, he promised himself. He'd have to be a good one, the _right_ one, an alpha who would love and protect Sam, and give him and his pups a home. Until then, they'd find a way to keep Sam safe somehow.

Instinctively, John reached out and ran his fingers lovingly down his son's cheek to reassure him. Well, it was _meant_ to be reassuring. In reality, the minute his hand neared the omega's jaw, the boy reared back as if afraid John would grab him. Doing so doing made him lift his chin up, out of the range of John's touch, and–

John's arm snapped down to his side, fingers involuntarily trying to clench into a fist before John could stop them. _Bare_ , his inner alpha growled in disbelief as his temper skyrocketed.

"Sam," he said neutrally, eyes focused on the pink flesh of his son's neck, "…where's the collar I left for you to wear?"

The omega's eyes skittered across the floor to the discarded leather band lying haphazardly on the ground. Guilt and desperation filled the air – _no…_ that wasn't _quite_ it, it was guilt, desperation… and _defiance_.

John followed Sam's gaze with a scowl, letting his disappointment billow out. "I know you weren't there to try it on when I bought it. Was the collar too tight?" He knew full well that wasn't the case.

Sam studied the floor at his feet, fidgeting as John let the silence loom between them. Finally, he softly said, "No."

John kept his voice soft and level, almost solicitous. "It's not the most expensive leather, I know. Did it irritate your skin?"

Another pregnant pause, tinged with the scent of apprehension. Another quiet "…No."

The alpha's eyes narrowed. He stood up and crossed to the collar, looking down at it. "So you are rejecting Dean and I? You no longer wish to be part of the Winchester pack?"

Confusion and panic welled up around the omega. "No, Dad–" the tone of his voice told him the idea was all but inconceivable– "Never!"

"Really? Because you have a funny way of showing that." He stared stonily at his son and quoted common law. _'Without a collar, an omega is packless, unprotected, fair game for any alpha that comes along.'_ "

Sam's eyes flashed. "Dad, that's not it at all and you know it. It's just–"

John reached within him for the steely reserves he normally reserved for their enemies, trying to remain calm and not cuff his omega to the floor as he recited the rules they both already knew. "It's the law, Sam. All omegas must be collared at all times. And I expected better than for you to toss yours weakly on the floor."

Sam muttered something lowly, lips twisted into almost a sneer of contempt as he stared angrily at the collar.

"What did you say?" John asked sharply. Jody's advice had all but fled his mind, discarded like the leather at his feet as something instinctual and angry and ugly uncurled inside him at the sight of his omega's neck.

"I said I expected better of myself, too," Sam's voiced raised bitterly. "I _meant_ to throw it a lot farther."

John let the silence pool around him, putting all his concentration into controlling himself. _He would be a good alpha._ He leaned down quietly and picked the leather collar off the ground.

"You taught me how to pick locks when I was four," Sam continued on, his anger gaining steam. "Dean and I were creating distractions for you to steal police files since I was eight. I desecrated my first grave at twelve, did my first B&E at thirteen. Since when have Winchesters _ever_ cared about the law? What's so different that we have to start _now_?"

John growled. "What's different is that _I'm saying so_ , Sam." He would not hit his son, he would not–

"What's different is that you're an _omega_ now, you're an omega, and omegas wear collars. I'm your father–" he was roaring now, anger roiling off of him– "and as your father and your goddamn alpha, I'm telling you to do what I say and put your collar on."

John took a deep breath. He knew what was coming next by the set of Sam's jaw and the sour mix of defiance and fear that suddenly filled the air.

_"No–"_ Sam's voice was determined, even if it wavered a little. He had raised himself into a half-kneeling position, trying to stand up to meet John eye-to-eye without losing the sheet wrapped around him. "I can't wear it, Dad. I can't– I don't need it, it doesn't –"

There was something off in the tone of the omega's voice, not fear exactly but something sour and curdled and wrong. John knew, distantly, that it was important, that he should follow that scent and figure it out. Sam wasn't just rebelling, it was...

It wasn't important, his alpha argued. He'd figure it out later.

John flung the offending leather strap into Sam's lap. "You can and you will, Sam. _Now."_

The omega leapt back from it like it had burned him, off the other side of the bed, not caring that the sheet did not follow him. His eyes were wild and unfocused. _"No!"_

The back, calm portion of John's mind wondered at the expression on Sam's face, to whom exactly Sam was yelling no.

The front portion of his mind – the one in control – only cared about reasserting his alpha authority over the omega who was trying to reject it. Dominance and anger clouded up around him. **"Omega, put on the collar. Kneel and submit."**

Sam's face blanched as the alpha's Command washed over him. Head tucked down, eyes locked onto John's expression, he lowered a shaking hand to the collar. Picked it up. Fumbled the clasp into place. Fell to his knees, eyes lowered to the ground, trembling and gulping for breath in the miasma of alpha pheromones that threatened to overwhelm him.

John's forebrain roared in approval. The quiet place in the back of his mind worried, _What have I done?_ The answer came back fast enough: _Only what I had to._

_Let him hate you_ , Jody had said. Apparently, that wouldn't be hard.

John forced himself to not collapse forward to comfort his son. He took in a deep breath, then said calmly, "Put on some clothing, Sam, and then get that research underway. You only have four weeks."

If John's heart broke a little when he walked through the door, when he saw the looks of concern (Bobby) and betrayal (Dean) from the faces in the hall, only he knew it.

"Leave him alone," he said as calmly as he could, closing Sam's door behind him. "He has to accept what he is now. Your coddling him isn't going to help."

* * *

Sam stayed frozen on his knees, pulse pounding, back shuddering. John had used his alpha voice on him before – no pup with an alpha parent escaped that fate unscathed – but it had never felt like this. Inexorable. Heavy. Impossible to disobey, binding his limbs and nerves until the possibility of anything other than submission was unbearable.

He tried to catch his breath. Failed. Choked. His fingers clutched at the leather, scrabbling their way underneath it, trying to clear more space for his airway, pulling the collar out until he could gulp in air, ignoring how it pressed against his nape.

_Off_.

His traitorous hands wouldn't rise those few more inches to reach the clasp. The smell of hay and beer curled into his lungs.

_Get it off._

He struggled to his feet, unsure for a moment if he was at Bobby's or back in the barn. He coughed, bile filling his throat, and suddenly all he could feel was the phantom probing of all those unwanted, unwashed cocks that had forced their way down his throat, blocking his airway as– as–

_off-get-it-off-getitoffgetitoffget–_

He made a mad dash for the bathroom, launching himself at the toilet as the broth Bobby had fed him forced its way up his esophagus and back out of his stomach. For long minutes, he sat there, curled around the bowl, face pressed against the cool porcelain, ignoring the faint, stale scent of urine and the non-existent hay he couldn't stop imagining he smelled.

_Get it off_ , he thought weakly, and finally, _finally,_ his hands obeyed, rubbery fingers flailing against the buckle twice before finally succeeding to flip it open on the third time. With exhausted limbs, he pushed himself to his feet, barely noticing when the collar dropped to the foot of the toilet. He left it there without a backward glance. Returned to the bed. Buried himself in the blankets, ignoring the way they itched against his skin.

When he woke about half an hour later, blankets kicked to the ground from fretful tossing and turning, his first thought was: _ten minutes_. That was how long it had taken his body to unlock fully from John's command.

He looked at the door. Looked down. Looked back at the _(ridiculously itchy, and seriously, what was going on there)_ blankets. Sighed. A minute later, clad in one of the innocuous pairs of omega underwear that his father had bought and one of the stupid, flouncy shirts, he sat back on the bed and opened up the laptop.

_Ten minutes_. It was a starting point.


	15. Reading, Research, Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a whole lotta research going on.
> 
> Remember folks, books are only as good as their authors' and publishers' motivations, and history books are written by the winners.

Sam approached his research the way he always had – methodically, logically, and most importantly, according to his own agenda rather than his father's.

The open laptop whirred on the bed in front of him, awaiting instructions. To his right lay a battered notepad with a list of questions and hypotheses to resolve, written out in neat freehand.

  1. What's the best case scenario? Can I fix it? fake it? hide it?
  2. If I can't – can I go somewhere else? Can they find me? Can I stop them?
  3. What's the worst case scenario? What do I do if it happens?



Trying to approach the situation objectively was futile. It would have been easy if it were just a hunt, but the stakes were a lot more personal now than just debating the most efficient way to deal with a woman in white. Sam frowned for a minute, pen hesitating above his notepad as if unwilling to make the question real, then sighed and scribbled in a fourth question:

  1. What's the best case scenario? Can I fix it? fake it? hide it?
  2. If I can't – can I go somewhere else? Can they find me? Can I stop them?
  3. What's the worst case scenario? What do I do if it happens?
  4. _How much help can I expect from Dad & Dean for any of the above?_



He started with the third question first, because of all of them, it was the easiest to answer. The _worst_ thing that could happen was that some asshole in Hibbing like the sheriff managed to find and mate him or drag him back to that godforsaken place to be the town bitch. The worst thing that could happen was a lifetime of the barn on repeat, rape and abuse and humiliation, only without the drugs to turn it from a straight-out horror show into a surrealist nightmare.

The solution was obvious. If the worst happened, he'd kill himself, as soon as he could, after making damn sure he took as many of those fucking sons of bitches with him.

> [Google search: Fifty deadliest accidents in the home]  
>  [Google search: Household chemicals you should never mix together]  
>  [Google search: Serial killers who used poison]  
>  [Google search: Omegas who kill and how they did it]  
>  [Google search: Have any omegas killed people?]  
>  [Google search: Really? None? That's ridiculous.]

Of course, that was assuming they didn't break or maim his hands, which they might… in which case fuck it, he'd just kill himself and get it over with.

_He didn't want to die._ The thought lay heavy in Sam's mind. He was just 18. He was supposed to have a bright future ahead of him.

Sam keened slightly, just a quiet noise in the back of his throat, choked off almost as soon as he realized it had happened. Then he straightened his shoulders and sat up, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He had a lot more ground to cover. The worst case scenario wasn't going to happen. He'd make sure of it.

Somehow.

* * *

Excerpts, "Your Omega and You: An Alpha's Guide," Minnesota Omega Review Board:

> _"Omegas are hands-on! Your omega needs touch, and the more, the better. When you let them stay in the room with you, keep them close and give them lots of loving pats and scritches. Try running your fingers along the back of their neck, over their scalp and through their hair, or down their spine. And of course, if the setting's appropriate and your companions don't mind, there are a lot more intimate areas where your omega will appreciate feeling your touch!"_
> 
> _*_
> 
> _"Did you know? There's a reason Minnesota recommends that all omegas be cuffed as well as collared. Being an omega can be scary with so many big, bad alphas around! That's why studies show that omegas are happiest and feel most secure when their alphas keep them clearly marked with visible signs that they have been claimed. For an omega, each cuff they wear is like a permanent hug from their alpha. Plus, they sure can come in handy when your omega has earned themselves a spanking… or for other pleasurable activities!"_
> 
> _*_
> 
> _"Omegas love to look pretty. Have fun indulging them. Consider adding colorful charms to their collar and cuffs, or gifting them with a jangly belt or anklet. Omegas love shiny, brightly colored things, and the soft jingling will make you smile each time they move – not to mention, you'll always know where they are! And who needs wind chimes when your omega is gaily sweeping the floor to the ringing of delicate little bells?_
> 
> _"But don't get carried away! Remember, omegas are easily pleased and not very discerning. A cubic zirconium necklace will bring the same ecstatic reception as one adorned with 14-carat diamonds. So unless it's necessary to dress them appropriate to your station, there's no need to waste money spoiling them with gifts they cannot fully appreciate. Remember, simple omegas, simple gifts."_
> 
> _*_
> 
> _"The omega desire to nest is infamous. You've probably already noticed a missing cushion here and there. Unless one of the pilfered pillows is a family heirloom, don't punish your O for these thefts; they are creatures of instinct, and nesting is one of their strongest, almost irresistible instincts. Instead, help your omega build a nest full of creature comforts – soft bedding, beloved toys, a music or movie player, maybe even a book or two if you allow yours to read. The thefts will stop, and you, the good alpha, will be able to bask in their gratitude._
> 
> _"Of course, time in this nest should be a privilege earned through good behavior. You'll find your omega will quickly fall in line for a few happy hours nesting when their chores are over, and a night or two on the cold floor will remind them not to take it for granted._
> 
> _"Please note, we absolutely do not recommend including a computer or television in your omega's nest. Os are very emotional and will quickly become distressed and fearful if exposed to worrisome current events."_

* * *

Dean stomped into Bobby's living room, dropping himself ungracefully into the chair opposite his father. The oldest Winchester glanced between the scowl on Dean's face and the pamphlet his son was holding. "What's that?"

"They gave it to me at the clinic. I didn't really have time to read it until now." The younger Winchester waggled it back and forth in frustration. "Thought it might have some useful stuff in there about Minnesota's omega standards, but… I dunno, it's just all fucked up."

"Oh?" John raised an eyebrow, cocking his head.

"Half of it sounds like someone's kinky sex fetish dungeon fantasy, and the other half sounds like some kind of demented pet care book." Dean rifled through the rumpled pages until he found the one he wanted.

"I mean, listen to this–" he pointed to an entry halfway down one page. "Exercise is important for omegas, so take yours for walkies regularly. If you don't have the time for a walk, buy a treadmill. No one wants a tubby omega!"

Dean flipped a few pages further and read another entry. "Treats are a surefire way to raise your O's spirits. Try a small piece of chocolate when your grumpus bakes up a batch of frownies."

John snorted involuntarily. "Omega or not, I'm pretty sure Sam would slap you if you told him he had a batch of the frownies."

Dean pursed his lips wryly. "Yeah, and I'm pretty sure I'd let him." He tossed _Your Omega and You_ on the living room table disdainfully, then leaned back, muscles taut, practically vibrating with tension as he looked over at John pensively. "Does… is… Sam's not going to be like that, right? Like some kind of sexed-up airhead himbo or anything? He's still gonna be _Sam_ , right?"

John snorted, flipping dismissively through the pamphlet. "What, all walkies and frownies? No, I don't think Sam will ever be like that. I think it's safe to say we can toss this in Bobby's tinder pile." He threw it over towards the fireplace, then turned somberly back to Dean. "But he _is_ going to change, Dean, and pretty significantly, and we have to make him accept that. There's a lot of things omegas need and a lot of things that omegas are, that alphas just don't and aren't. You told me yourself how he was trembling and freezing up yesterday. Does that sound like the Sam who took down that black dog?"

Dean slumped down, shoulders deflating. "No, but–"

"Exactly. He'd be a complete liability on a hunt – and even more so if he keeps trying to act like the alpha he isn't. As it is, we're going to have to figure out a whole new set of protocols to keep him safe when we're not there, and he _has_ to learn to follow them. Otherwise, he'll end up claimed by the first asshole who catches him out on his own trying to act the alpha."

Dean growled instinctively at the thought.

"But at the core, he's still your brother," John concluded. "Right now it seems wrong to think about him popping out pups, or going through heat. But if he'd presented as an omega, it would just seem normal. It'd be okay for Sam to not be a fighter, or a hunter. And it's okay now. We just have to help him accept his new life."

John leaned down next to his chair and picked up Bobby's binder, holding it out to Dean. "Bobby printed out a bunch of information on the regulations for us. Why don't you take a read through them? Probably be a lot more useful than that crap the clinic gave you."

Dean took the binder and settled back into the chair with it, placing it carefully across his lap. After staring at it apprehensively for a few moments, he sighed and opened it up.

John leaned back in his recliner and picked up his own book from the end table, shaking his head. "Frownies. _Jesus_."

* * *

> [Google search: Can omega transition be stopped?]  
>  [Google search: Can omega transition be reversed?]  
>  [Google search: Omega cure]  
>  [Google search: Can omega turn back to alpha?]

The Internet, per se, didn't seem all that interested in actual scientific research so much as paranoid conspiracy theory surrounding wartime biological agents, and the body of evidence that did exist all seemed to confirm that the transition was one-way only and irreversible. Sure, a few stories about omegas becoming alphas did exist, but a) they were all fiction, and b) every one of them ended with the omega realizing how much they _loved_ being an O and transitioning back at the end.

Every. Single. Goddamn. One.

As a result, Sam was discovering that answering his first question – "What's the best case scenario?" – was a lot more difficult.

> [Google search: How to pass as an alpha]  
>  [Google search: How to pass as a beta]  
>  [Google search: Alpha, omega population density, parameter: United States, parameter: per thousand people, parameter: least to most dense]  
>  [Google search: Longest time omega has obfuscated gender]  
>  [Google search: How to counter omega scent]  
>  [Google search: How to fool K-9 squad]  
>  [Google search: How to cover the "unseemly smell of slick"]  
>  [Google search: How to keep your house from smelling like a whorehouse when you live with an omega]

Not to mention disheartening.

> [Google search: How to resist alpha voice]  
>  [Google search: Can omegas resist alpha voice]  
>  [Google search: Why can't omegas resist alpha voice?]  
>  [Google search: Physiological components of alpha voice reaction in omegas]  
>  [Google search: Do omega piercings close up if left empty]  
>  [Google search: Can brand scarring be removed with plastic surgery?]  
>  [Google search: Disbarred plastic surgeons, parameter: Sioux Falls]  
>  [Google search: Doctors arrested for practicing without license, parameter: Sioux Falls]

Seriously disheartening.

> [Google search: Omega emancipation]  
>  [Google search: Can omegas remain unclaimed]  
>  [Google search: "Abandoned omega" laws]  
>  [Google search: Length of time to qualify as abandoned omega]  
>  [Google search: Can alphas really just claim omega found living alone? I mean, really? That's ridiculous.]  
>  [Google search: Can alpha claim omega living with beta guardian?]  
>  [Google search: Stanford omega policies]  
>  [Google search: Unchaperoned omega rights]  
>  [Google search: Unchaperoned omega travel restrictions]  
>  [Google search: Omega leash laws]  
>  [Google search: You have got to be kidding me]

His best options were Stanford (assuming he could find a way to get there, since he didn't dare hitchhike and couldn't take the bus), staying with Bobby and maybe helping out with research or cars or something, or continuing to hunt with the family. The first two options required him to be mated and have "proof of regular alpha visits", whatever the fuck that meant, because apparently once you're an omega you don't _get_ to not have an alpha in your life. The last option meant he'd be under his father's thumb, more or less permanently, except this time without the ability to blow off steam or get away from him. (Option four – find some alpha, get married, pump out pups, give up on life – was _right_ off the table, and fuck you very much for thinking of it.)

The thing was, it didn't make sense that no one had ever developed an effective way of hiding your omega status. Surely there were some rich families out there who refused to deal with having the heir to the family fortune present as omega, weren't there?

> [Google search: Omega suppressants]  
>  [Google search: Can heats be prevented]  
>  [Google search: Omega suppressant ring busts]  
>  [Google search: Proof required for gender obfuscation conviction]  
>  [Google search: Omega crime statistics +gender obfuscation –prostitution]  
>  [Google search: Arrests for gender obfuscation last two years]  
>  [Google search: Famous omega criminals]

Sam bent grimly over the laptop, switching back and forth between three or four browser tabs at a time. Not for the first time, he wished he was more of a hacker – he could break into sites that he _knew_ existed, but anything useful was probably someplace off-grid in the dark.net where he didn't know to look. He was a hunter, not a criminal. Well, not _that_ kind of criminal, anyway; credit card fraud and shoplifting were vast oceans away from the illegal omega trafficking, child pornography and drug running that populated the dark.net.

Better to focus on concrete possibilities.

> [Google search: Legal recourse forced turning]  
>  [Google search: Legal recourse forced turning Minnesota]  
>  [Google search: Hibbing County omega abuse statistics]  
>  [Google search: Hibbing County recent turnings, parameters: last seven days]  
>  [Google search: Minnesota omega abuse lawsuits]  
>  [Google search: What states are required to maintain omega abuse statistics]  
>  [Google search: Why aren't more forced turnings reported to the police]  
>  [Google search: Omega rights by state]  
>  [Google search: Best state for omega rights]  
>  [Google search: Worst states for omega rights]  
>  [Google search: Do omegas have rights in Minnesota]  
>  [Google search: South Dakota omega rights]  
>  [Google search: Omega rights movement?]  
>  [Google search: Where does an omega have to live to be treated like a human being]  
>  [Google search: Is there an omega underground railro-

He slammed the lid down reflexively as someone knocked on the door. "Yeah?" he asked cautiously, trying not to let anything like guilt scent the air.

"Just me, kid." Bobby, then.

Sam relaxed infinitesimally; even if Bobby caught wind of what he was looking up, Sam was pretty sure he'd keep it to himself. Technically John couldn't criticize anything he was doing – it wasn't like he'd forbidden Sam from looking anything else up, so Sam was in the clear as long as he _did_ eventually research the information his father had told him to.

Which he would.

Eventually.

He cleared his throat. "What's up?"

"You hungry, kid?" He could hear the beta shifting from foot to foot outside the door. "Thought ya might want some more broth or somethin'."

Sam's stomach gurgled. Okay, yeah, he was hungry, but…

He glanced over at the innocuous plastic vitamin bottle, waiting to be taken with dinner. Sure, it was just vitamins, but it was vitamins for the parasite, there to keep the parasite healthy… so no. Not yet.

He sighed. "Not just yet, Bobby. I'm kinda on a roll here. Maybe later?"

Bobby gave a disapproving grunt. "Your call, kid, but ya gotta eat sometime. You come find me when you change yer mind, okay?"

Sam opened up the laptop again and waited for it to come out of sleep mode. "Sure thing, Bobby," he said absently, not even noticing as the beta walked away.

* * *

Excerpt, "Obedience Vs. Submission: Towards a True Understanding of the Alpha-Omega Duality," Herrnstein, R. and Murray, C.A.:

> _"Science has found that the omega brain is physiologically simpler and physically less complex than the alpha brain. Postmortem dissections conducted by the George Mason University (1956-1976) confirmed that omega brains are 1%-5% smaller than those of alphas, with correspondingly diminished striations. Moreover, the Wagner-Joyner Study (1982) found an average 15.2% difference in synaptic response between alpha and omega brains._
> 
> _"But, what does this actually mean for you as an alpha?_
> 
> _"As an alpha, it is your burden to control the household and the relationship. Your brain has evolved to process and deal with the negative emotions that come with the yoke of leadership. Genetics have built you to lead, to dictate, and to defend. Omegas, on the other hand, are happy and obedient by nature, designed to comfort and nurture._
> 
> _"However, post-turning, your omega will likely continue to experience some or all of the following alpha-emotions for a few weeks: anger, anxiety, confusion, depression, violent tendencies. This emotional instability is a fortunately temporary side-effect of physiological alterations during the turning process. Thankfully, the omega's body will quickly rid itself of these toxic holdovers from its previous alpha designation. When the transition is complete, your omega's naturally complacent and eager-to-please mindset will emerge._
> 
> _"In the meantime, you can minimize your omega's distress with overt shows of affection – to help stabilize its mood – and demonstrations of control – to stabilize their sense of security. Keep your O near you as much as possible and shower it with physical contact. Newly turned omegas often reject non-sexual physical closeness out of embarrassment or shame, but when the element of choice (and therefore guilt) over such contact is removed, they respond extremely positively._
> 
> _"Moreover, touch is the fastest way to acclimate them to respond to your non-verbal commands. When you tell your O to do something, reinforce it with a hand to their shoulder or the nape of their neck. They will quickly learn to interpret what these touches mean in any particular situation, reducing the amount of attention you must divert to overseeing them."_

* * *

John looked up from his book as Bobby walked into the room, holding a mug of broth. Nearby, Dean did the same, snapping the binder shut and straightening up to pay attention to Bobby's update.

"He's awake," the beta said. "Awake, typin', and lost in his own little world the way he always is when he gets all caught up in research. I asked through th' door if he was hungry, but he said no."

Dean slumped back in his chair, a small frown on his face. He'd been staying away from the second floor per John's request to give Sam space, but not happily. Sam needed to eat; everything he'd read said Sam's metabolism would be in high gear for at least a week.

John scowled. "Sam knows he has to start on the vitamins with dinner. I don't want him getting ideas about loopholes by skipping the meal altogether." He looked at his watch. "In an hour, I'm sending Dean up to make sure the boy eats."

"Sure thing, Dad," Dean nodded vigorously. He opened up the binder again with renewed energy, obviously cheered by the news.

"How'd he look?" John asked. "He seem okay otherwise? He'd worked himself up pretty good when I talked to him earlier."

The older hunter shrugged and fidgeted a bit. "Didn't go in, actually. Figured he could do with a bit of privacy, dealin' with all the stuff he's learnin' about." He sat down on the couch facing the alphas, absently sipping at the broth Sam had rejected – no sense letting food go to waste – and nodded toward the book in John's hands. "How's your readin' goin'?"

John creased a corner of one page to mark his place as he closed the book. He rubbed his eyes as he smiled wryly. "Makes my head hurt, to be honest. Give me research on some 15th century Indonesian spirit of vengeance over this any day."

Bobby snorted. "Not exactly light, huh?"

John let himself slump back into the lumpy, threadbare recliner, willing the tension to dissolve from his limbs. "I'm sure it'd make a lot more sense if I was a doctor. All this science _sounds_ believable, I just–"

"Don't want it to be true because it's Sam?" Bobby cut in.

John exhaled, nodding. "Yeah. They keep talking about how much more relaxed and happy he'll be, and it's, well… that's the last thing a hunter needs – you can't afford to let down your guard, ever. It's how you get killed. He's going to be so much more of a risk now, not to mention a target."

Bobby looked sharply at John. "Who says he has to be? Why not let him stay here, or send him to Jim's, where he'd be safe?"

The oldest Winchester stared back at Bobby. "Staying with me's the safest thing for Sam." He looked suddenly pensive. "For everyone."

* * *

Excerpt, "Serenity: The Art of Letting Go," Quaker, J.R.:

> _"As an omega, you have undoubtedly been told that the relationship you will have to your alpha is one of obedience: the alpha commands, the omega obeys. However, while this mindset may adhere to the letter of the law, it barely scratches the surface of the true A/o dynamic._
> 
> _"And what is this true dynamic? Consider the powerful words of the famous Omega's Prayer: 'God grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time; enjoying one moment at a time; accepting hardships as my pathway to peace; taking this world as it is, not as I would have it; trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to His Will; that I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with Him forever in the next.'_
> 
> _"Insightful words – 'trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to His Will.' What do they mean?_
> 
> _"As an omega, you give your alpha your trust. You trust that he will be good to you, that he will always keep your needs and desires in mind, that he will, in fact, 'make all things right.' In return, your alpha repays you by proving worthy of that trust in protecting and caring for you. Think for a moment of the mealtime tradition that the omega is fed by the alpha's hand. Many betas criticize this practice as demeaning or humiliating, and for a beta, it might well be. But for an A/o pair, the dynamic is different. 'Take my food,' the alpha offers. 'I have hunted for you. Let me show my love by caring for you with my own hands.' In return, the omega offers up its own sacrament: 'My trust in you is absolute. I will eat from your hands because I know I will never come to any harm from them.'_
> 
> _"This is our primal biological contract, two-made-one, the inescapable yin-and-yang duality of our natures that connects us all the way back to our ancestors as they first decided to walk on two legs, not on four._
> 
> _"As alphas and omegas, we are not equal. We are complementary. A dance cannot have two leaders; for harmony in movement, one must lead and one must follow. But when we unite, we make a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts – 'Two are claimed; one remains,' as the adage goes. This gift of unity is one that the betas of the world, with all their talk of equality, can never understand on a core level. In order to be equal, you must be separate._
> 
> _"In the movie Labyrinth, the alpha Jareth begs Sarah, 'Fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave.' But Sarah is a beta, and as such, she is unable to understand or accept Jareth's offer.* Indeed, she is, tragically, incapable of comprehending the seemingly paradoxical rules, laid out so succinctly by her goblin king, under which A/o relationships thrive._
> 
> _"'Fear me' – the alpha's nature craves dominance and control. The omega's nature yearns for the security and protection of the alpha's strength._
> 
> _"'Love me' – the alpha's nature craves displays of affection and adoration. The omega's nature yearns to love and nurture others._
> 
> _"'Do as I say' – the alpha's nature yearns to command and direct. The omega's nature yearns to follow and submit._
> 
> _"When you discover the inner serenity to let go of the things you have been told you_ should _want and embrace these things that your inner nature truly craves, you will discover in your alpha an adored and cherished mate, lovingly dominant and utterly devoted to you. As Jareth observes, he will be your slave._
> 
> _"* Mind you, if Sarah had been an omega, there would have been no plot at all, for no omega would act so heartlessly toward a helpless infant in the first place."_

* * *

It was supposed to sound comforting, Sam supposed – comforting and safe. Give up wanting anything and you will be given anything you could ever want.

It sounded like hell.

Sam wondered how many omegas, if any, bought into it. It wasn't _exactly_ a lie. You couldn't say you weren't given what you wanted if you didn't want anything. As if what your alpha wanted you to have was the _only_ thing any omega could ever want. As if no omega could ever want anything else, especially not something as ludicrous as being in control of their own destiny.

Sam had turned to the _Serenity_ book after his online investigations into Minnesota's "omega rehabilitation" requirements proved depressingly short. As far as he could tell, they just consisted of a series of commands and positions that an omega had to be able to execute satisfactorily while leashed, collared and demonstrating "proper omega bearing and comportment."

The commands sounded like they'd been adapted from a dog show – up, down, follow, heel, stop, kneel, eat, present, stay, obey – and the lowered expectations society held for omegas would work in his favor. None of the positions were complex or difficult in any way, shape, or form. They were humiliating, absolutely, but he was sure he could pull them off if he could somehow stomach wearing a collar and leash. Most of them, anyway… he didn't want to think too much about the _present_ position he'd watched a vapid tiny blonde omega girl demonstrate, giggling, on YouTube. It was the pose every alpha had masturbated to at least once during adolescence, and why not? It shoved all those mysterious omega differences right out on display for anyone to see: on your hands and knees, ass up. Head down resting on your hands, out of sight; no one cared about what was in there, anyway (no one ever wanted an omega for their brain). No, only the bits of the omega that mattered were easily accessible – their soft, small knotless cock and wet hole. _Presented_ , upon the alpha's command _._ Ready to be fucked, because of course that's what an omega wanted, to be fucked, knotted, bred. To kneel brainless and content at their master's feet. To–

He took a deep breath, face flaming red in embarrassment at the reality that he would be expected to demean himself like that in front of Dean and his father during the test. It would hopefully be the first and last time that would happen.

And then there were the other two issues: The collar and leash, and the utterly subjective behavioral assessment component.

Sam's throat closed up at the thought of the collar. He could, he could probably get past his– _("Collar's to remind him what he is")_ – his issues with it, with time and something like desensitization therapy. But in a month? He didn't know. Maybe they could get a doctor to testify that he couldn't wear the collar. He didn't _want_ to get used to it, shouldn't have to… but it would be useful to be able to wear it when he needed to blend in. And even more useful if he needed to get away from some asshole alpha. His current inability to do more than freeze up and freak out would be a complete liability in the field.

And then there was "proper omega bearing and comportment"… _whatever_ the fuck that was. Technically, it probably meant being able to respond to the alpha's commands in a set time window and with a minimum of resentment or resistance. But realistically, it was a catch-all category that gave the state _carte blanche_ to seize and re-educate omegas who didn't fit the fucked-up submissive and obedient mindset society expected them to have. He'd hoped the book would tell him what the fuck they were looking for, so he could figure out how to fake it.

It had been… enlightening.

> _"The serenity of being O means gracefully accepting the decisions of your alpha and submitting to his authority without question. If he asks you for your opinion on a decision, you may provide it. If he does not ask for your opinion, you must trust that your alpha knows and wants what is best for you. Once your alpha has made his decision, it is your place to accept it without bargaining or complaint, regardless of whether your input was considered and regardless of whether you understand the reasoning behind his choice. This is the nature of submission, to give yourself over to your alpha and place your well-being entirely in his hands."_

It made Sam's skin crawl just to think about it. How could you fake something like that?

If he couldn't fake it, he'd fail. And if he failed…

If his father forced Sam to take the test and he failed to meet the tester's standards, he was right back to his worst-case scenario solution, because death was better than failure.

Failure meant the state would sentence him to one of its rehab clinics to help him properly "acclimate" to his new life. The clinics were empowered to do literally whatever they felt was necessary to settle a maladjusted omega – anything from muting to castration to forced primary gender reassignment or worse – all ostensibly in the name of the O's "emotional and mental well-being," so that they could be returned to their alpha as a fully functional, well-adjusted omega.

Not that it always worked out that way. In reality, it meant that clinics were often staffed by the worst kinds of sociopaths, who just wanted victims for their twisted, fucked up fantasies and power games. Sam had found lots and lots of information about lawsuits against clinics from alphas who were not happy with the "finished product" that was returned to them. In most cases, the state's traditional settlement included financial compensation and trading in the "defective" omega for a guaranteed slot at an omega auction.

_"… you will discover in your alpha an adored and cherished mate, lovingly dominant and utterly devoted to you."_ Yeah, right. Because when you were an omega, part of having an "adored and cherished mate" included being tortured, mutilated and then traded in like a used car for a better model when there wasn't a goddamn thing you could do about it.

He wiped a tear angrily from his eyes. God, why couldn't he get a grip on his emotions? He never used to cry like this, not even after the worst fights with John.

"Fuck!" Sam threw the offending book at the trashcan by the door. It fell short, landing with a thump about a foot from the target and skittering forward until it bumped into the boots framed in the open doorway.

Dean's boots.

The alpha stood in the doorway, a plate stacked high with sandwiches in one hand and another protein-shake thing in the other, looking down at the book with an expression somewhere between concern and amusement.

"What's with the book abuse, Sammy?"

Fuck.

* * *

"Shove over, kiddo." Dean dropped heavily down onto the foot of the bed, ignoring the way his brother scrambled back against the headboard and trying not to ogle the soft pale flesh exposed beneath Sam's shirt. He placed the shake carefully on the floor between his feet, then slumped back against the wall, balancing the plate on one thigh. "What's got you upset? I could smell you stressin' out all the way downstairs."

Sam arched an eyebrow into a dry 'fuck-you' expression, then snorted as he leaned over and dragged the discarded blankets back up onto the bed.

"Yeah, okay, that was a stupid question." Dean kept his eyes averted until his brother had arranged the fabric to cover everything from his waist down. "Wanna talk about it?"

"No," Sam murmured. "It's nothing." Arms hugging his knees protectively to his chest, he looked far younger than his 18 years.

"C'mon, spill," Dean countered. "That book didn't end up halfway across the room on its own, unless Bobby's got some poltergeist up here tossin' things around."

Sam sighed. "Same thing that was wrong yesterday and is gonna be wrong tomorrow." He rested his chin on his knees. "I'm… I'm just frustrated and tired, that's all."

The alpha grunted. "Might not be so tired if you didn't keep turning down Bobby's food." He lifted up the top sandwich and deliberately took a big bite out of it. "Mmmm, bacon, lettuce and tomato. You're really missing out here, Sammy."

Sam extended one of his legs and kicked Dean gently. "So hand over a sandwich already, jerk."

"What?" Dean took another big bite, talking as he chewed. "No way, man. These are all _mine_. You told Bobby you weren't hungry, remember?" He shuffled slightly down the bed, away from Sam's foot, protecting his plate bodily. "But if you ask me nicely, I might share."

Sam scowled. "Don't be an ass."

Dean could feel the bed shift as Sam tensed his muscles. He gripped the plate tight and lifted it out of the way just as Sam launched himself bodily at it. The omega tried to compensate and change angles, but overbalanced, toppling backwards off the bed and landing on his ass facing the bed.

Sam's startled expression vanished into a scowl as he realized what had happened. When he opened his mouth to bitch Dean out, the alpha smirked and stuffed the remainder of the sandwich in instead. Sam's eyes narrowed as he chewed, the _fuck you_ evident in his glare.

But he didn't spit it out.

Dean leaned down and righted the shake that Sam had knocked over. " _This_ is yours." He held the cup out, thankfully not playing games with it this time but just handing it to the omega, who leaned back against the bed and reluctantly sipped at the chalky vanilla drink.

Dean cleared his throat. "Forgetting something, Sammy?" he inclined his head at the vitamins.

Sam groaned. "Bite me, Dean. I lived without taking vitamins the first 18 years of my life, I don't see why I have to start now."

"That's only 'cause Dad got tired of hearing you whine about that kinda shit one too many times and tanned your hide back when you were 13." Dean ripped off a piece of another sandwich and handed it to Sam. "You think he didn't want to give you that shit? You try raisin' two kids on the road, havin' to choose between vitamins or dinner, vitamins or new shoes because _someone's_ gigantic ass went through three growth spurts one summer. You're just being a little bitch about it and you know it. If it was anyone else but you, you'd be jammin' those vitamins down their throat and lecturing 'em about the importance of good nutrition."

Sam grumbled around the sandwich quarter he was quickly devouring, but then finally reached over and retrieved the bottle. "Fine, but you owe me a whole sandwich after this." He shook one brown-speckled oval pill out into his hand and sat there, staring at it like it might contain poison.

"I don't owe you shit, but you say please and I'll reconsider out of the goodness of my heart." Dean waggled the sandwich over Sam's head. "And don't go palming it, neither, I can tell you're thinkin' about it. Bobby's roast beef is on the line." He watched as the omega swallowed it, washing it down with more of the shake.

Finished, Sam looked over at Dean expectantly. " _Done_. Hand it over."

The elder Winchester waggled the sandwich again. "Nope, you still gotta ask nicely. Say please – no, wait, how about, _'Please, Dean, you're the best alpha broth–'_ "

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Dean's good-natured teasing broke off as both brothers suddenly became aware of the tableau they presented – alpha seated, food in hand… omega on the floor at his feet, waiting to be fed.

"Fuck you, Dean," Sam choked out, scrambling to his feet, anger and shame erupting past Dean's filtered senses. He fled into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him before the alpha could respond.

* * *

Real mature, Sam thought bitterly to himself. Hiding in the bathroom like–

_–like a weak little omega._ He slumped against the wall, listening to his breath as it came in gasps, a dissociated part of himself thinking absently that he should probably focus on calming down. Instead, he watched in the bathroom mirror as the parasite choked for breath. Good, he though bitterly, go ahead and die. It was difficult now to see his reflection, there was something in his eyes. Tears.

"–m sorry, Sam, I swear that wasn't what I–"

_Dean._

He swallowed his next gasp, counted to 10, exhaled. "'m fine, Dean." He was proud of how stable his voice sounded.

"Yeah?" The alpha shifted slightly on the other side of the door, then asked quietly, "How 'bout you open the door and prove it to me then?"

Sam sighed, glancing down at the splintered hole below the doorknob from when Dean'd had to rescue him from his ridiculous meltdown. "It's not like there's a lock on it anymore, remember?"

"I was tryin' to be respectful, y'know?" It sounded like Dean was right outside the door, probably

Sam barked out a bitter laugh. _"Why?"_ He moved away from the mirror and sat down on the toilet, wishing once again that they'd left him a pair of jeans to cover himself. Sure, there were the omega pants, but he wasn't ready to be quite that humiliated yet.

The door slid open and Dean entered, slowly, a hangdog expression on his face. "What do you mean, why? You think I think any less of you just 'cause something shitty happened?" He leaned against the wall, hands jammed in his pockets, green eyes focused on his brother, trying to catch his gaze.

Sam slumped down on the seat, curling into himself and staring down at the ground. "No, I mean, why _bother_?"

"Hey, if this is about the sandwich, Sam, I really didn't – I was just foolin' around, I –" He smelled and sounded so forlorn that it was easy for Sam to believe his brother hadn't been intentionally playing stupid status games. Not consciously, anyway.

"Doesn't matter. I'm not hungry anymore." He knew that starving the parasite wouldn't help him, would in fact _hurt_ him – the transition required energy, and if he wasn't feeding it, it would continue to eat away at his muscle and build, leaving him even smaller and less alpha-like than he already was. But the appetite that Dean's sandwiches had ignited turned to tasteless ash with the bitter reminder that this was supposed to be his life now. Maybe if there was less of him, there would be less to hurt.

Dean slid down the wall until he was sitting, extracting his hands from his pocket and holding them out to Sam. "C'mere."

The omega wanted to burrow into the safety promised by those hands. Hated himself for wanting to. He wrapped his fingers up inside the cuffs of his shirt instead and fidgeted with the buttons.

"No alpha bullshit, Sammy." Dean smiled ruefully, arms still outstretched. "Just you'n me, the way it's always been."

Suppressing the small cry that tried to wrestle past his lips, Sam slid silently onto the floor and over to his brother. It had been years since he fit so well under Dean's arm, breathing in the spiciness of his brother's cologne mixed with Dean's own heady scent. _Alpha pheromones_ , his brain argued. _Not real._

Sam ignored it.

"It's gonna get better," Dean said finally. "I know it sucks right now but everything Dad and I've read says that it's just all the leftover alpha stuff in your system that's making it all so bad right now."

Sam pushed himself out from under Dean's arm. "How much of Bobby's library is nothing but myths and superstition? Books lie." He sighed. "What's making it _bad_ isn't biology, it's you and Dad finishing the job those assholes in Hibbing started. I mean, they only took away my knot and–" he faltered– "an' my pride. Dad's taking away everything else that mattered. All my life he's been telling me the only thing that mattered is finding Mom's killer and protecting people, and now you're both telling me I can never do any of that. If I hadn't already graduated, I wouldn't have been able to finish high school or… anything."

His voice cracked. "What am I supposed to do now? Never be able to talk or contribute to a conversation unless Dad gives me permission? Wait around rotting in hotel rooms knowing that you and Dad are in danger and you won't let me do jack shit about it? Sit at your feet and beg to be fed scraps like a dog the way _you_ asked me to a minute ago?"

Dean scowled, picking stubbornly at a hole in his jeans. "It was a fuckin' _joke_ , Sammy."

Sam stilled. "You liked it," he said, almost too soft to be heard. "I could smell it, Dean. You _liked_ it, me sitting there like that." He hated how lost he sounded, even to himself.

The older Winchester inched over until their shoulders and hips connected again. "Yeah, I ain't gonna lie – I did like it." He leaned against his younger sibling and smiled fondly. "I'm your _brother_ , Sam. There's never going to be a time I don't like taking care of you, whether you're sitting on the floor or on the roof. As for the rest…" He frowned a little. "Yeah, probably there's some kinda alpha-omega posturing bullshit wrapped up in it, too, I dunno, but I really _was_ just playing around."

Sam straightened his legs out in front of him, cringing as one foot accidentally sent the collar skittering away from where he'd dropped it earlier. _Here comes the lecture…_

But "hmm" was all Dean said, cocking his head and looking at the collar.

"Dad made me put it on earlier," Sam offered – he wasn't sure why, maybe just to explain himself and not feel like such a failure. "But I, I – it was like lunch, I just couldn't…"

"And up came Bobby's soup from earlier?"

Sam nodded miserably. "Even if I wanted to, which I don't– I just…" He leaned back, pounding his head gently against the wall. "Don't you see how _fucked_ this all is?"

The alpha sagged, sorrow and frustration crisp in his scent. "Yeah, Sammy. I see _exactly_ how fucked this is. Been seeing it ever since we got you outta that goddamned town."

He put his arm around the omega, letting Sam's newly turned scent wash over him, calming him. "Don't think about what it's gonna be like forever, Sammy. Just focus on this month. Thirty days, that's all. Once we get through that, we'll have all the time in the world to figure something out."

Impulsively, he kissed Sam on the forehead, then dropped his arm down to grab Sam's hand as he stood up, pulling the omega up with him. He waited until Sam shakily caught his balance, then pulled him toward the door. "C'mon, I believe I owe you a sandwich." He smirked. "Unless you'd rather have a batch of the frownies."

"The _what?!_ "


	16. Lull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lull: n, a temporary interval of quiet._  
>  A last night of calm before the storm. Dean and John wrestle with the weight of what's to come.

Dean eased himself out from under Sam's dozing form. The kid had polished off two sandwiches without prompting, only minimally resisting when Dean had sat down with his back to the headboard and again pulled the omega under his arm like he had in the bathroom. A grand total of three and a half sandwiches, Dean noted smugly, all of which stayed down in Sam's stomach where they could actually do some good.

Sam might like to play strong and independent, but he wasn't skilled enough yet to hide the scent of contentment that curled around him, especially while he slept. The books had spouted a lot of nonsense, but they seemed right on one point: Dean could feel Sam noticeably relax under the personal contact – so long as the alpha telegraphed his movements and kept everything very clearly non-sexual, anyway. When Dean's free hand accidentally brushed across Sam's thigh reaching for the last sandwich, the boy had all but frozen, not even breathing until the hand was safely back on its own side. Then bit by bit his muscles had unclenched, shoulders trembling slightly as he exhaled his choked-in breath. He'd sagged back against Dean, then, burying his nose into the alpha's shoulder to scent him like he used to when he was a pup, going all but boneless under the rush of pheromones.

Dean wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd liked the contact, too, especially since his inner alpha was ecstatic that he could still smell himself on the omega. It was easy, too easy, to tilt his head to sniff Sam's head and inhale, letting a wave of calm and peace wash over him.

So okay, maybe it wasn't _only_ his brother who took a nap for a little while there.

The kid wasn't just napping, though; he was out like a frickin' light, partially from the ongoing changes and partially from all the stress his emotions had been putting him through. He barely noticed when Dean slid him under the covers and tucked him in, although he did frown slightly when the alpha stood up.

After a moment's thought, Dean slid his faded Black Sabbath t-shirt over his head, musky with sweat and cologne and pheromones after spending half the day working in Bobby's yard, and dropped it onto his brother's pillow.

Sam's frown eased immediately. The omega reached out his right hand, still fast asleep, and instinctively yanked the shirt close to his face, breathing in deeply. Dean noticed idly that Sam's fingers on that hand were entirely healed. They'd always bear that twisted, burned-in scar pattern from the branding iron, but he'd been using them all afternoon without any observable dexterity loss, which was excellent.

Sam rolled onto his stomach, all but burying his nose in the t-shirt and huffing it in his sleep.

"Knock yourself out, kid," Dean murmured, resisting the urge to climb back in the bed to keep the nightmares at bay like he had when they were little.

He tidied up the room on his way out of the room, quietly shifting the piles of clothing and omega supplies so that they wouldn't trip up a sleep-groggy Sammy in the morning. He almost returned Sam's book and collar to his nightstand, but thought better and placed them on the bureau instead, visible but not so ominously close by. Then he clicked off the light, leaving the door lightly ajar as he quietly retreated downstairs.

* * *

"- _if_ it's a rusalka, and that's an _if_ , then traditionally you'd have t' avenge her death t' get her gone. But since her body was retrieved from th' lake and buried, you could probably just save yerself th' hassle and just salt and burn th' body."

Bobby was leaning over the kitchen table when Dean brought the dishes back down from Sam's room, his handset pinned between his ear and shoulder as he consulted a book with Cyrillic lettering. He nodded to Dean briefly, raising an eyebrow at the alpha's missing shirt, then flipped to the next page. "There's some evidence that they're some kinda Russian version of a siren, so I'd get yerself a really good pair a' ear plugs, too."

Dean dropped the plate in the sink as Bobby broke into a detailed description of the difference between a rusalka and a naiad. He grabbed three bottles of El Sol out of the fridge and popped off their caps, delivering one to the older hunter's already outstretched hand. The beta took a long swallow of the beer and placed it carefully to one side of the book, wiping his hand on his shirt to dry the condensation from it before turning another page. "Th' key here is her hair, Caleb – if it ain't red, it ain't a rusalka, so don't do nothin' stupid and call back in that case. _Capiche_?"

Dean took a swig out from his own bottle and sat down, depositing the third El Sol on the table in front of the empty chair. For a moment, he let himself imagine that nothing had changed – just him, Sam and John stopping by to get information on a hunt. Then his eyes fell on the space where the fourth chair used to be and he took another big swallow, remembering sharply that _everything_ had changed.

Bobby hung up the phone with a scowl. "What kinda idjit takes on a water spirit without backup? Th' fool's gonna get himself drowned if he ain't careful." He grabbed a credit card application from the pile of junk mail on the table and slid it into the volume to mark his place, then placed the book carefully to one side as he sat down.

"How ya doin', son?" The beta picked up his beer again, running a finger around the rim as he peered at Dean. "Holding up okay?"

Dean waved away the question with a hand as he leaned back in his chair. "Ask me that next year, I might have an answer. Right now…?" He drained half the beer in one gulp, ran his fingers through his hair, and sighed. "Honestly? Hell if I know. Sam is–"

"–not the person I asked about," Bobby interrupted placidly. "Sam's got you an' John lookin' after him. You, on the other hand – you think I ain't noticed the way you've been running practically nonstop the last 48 hours? _Someone_ oughta be asking how you feel." His dropped his bottle to the table with a quiet thunk, the beer inside sloshing up to kiss the rim. "So…" the older hunt put both of his hands flat on the table's edge and leaned forward, looking Dean squarely in the eyes. "…how _do_ you feel?"

The young alpha's head and shoulders slumped forward, guilt and frustration roiling forward as he finally let himself feel the stress he'd managed to keep at bay around Sam.

"How do I feel?" Dean barked out a bitter laugh, rubbing his forefinger and thumb across his eyes. "I feel like a failure, Bobby. I fucked up, and Sam paid the price. I shoulda never let him walk off on his own like that. If I'd stopped him, made him and dad talk things out, none of this would be happening. He got hurt on _my_ watch. I shoulda–"

The scent of Old Spice and leather hit Dean a second before his father's hand, large and comforting, came to rest on Dean's shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, Dean," the alpha's baritone rumbled in Dean's ear. " _I_ let Sam walk off, not you. _I_ took the sheriff at his word. _I_ made the call to leave Hibbing instead of investigating further. And don't think I haven't been beating myself up over that."

John squeezed the young alpha's shoulder reassuringly. "The truth is, it's neither of our faults."

He passed behind Dean, the leather of his jacket rustling as it brushed against his son's chair, and sat down in front of the unclaimed El Sol, tossing a bundled up shirt at Dean. "If you want to go looking for people to blame, look at the 'good folk' of Hibbing." His voiced darkened, matching the anger that clouded around him like a gathering storm. "And don't think we won't be going back there as soon as Sam's back on his feet." The promise of violence lingered in the air as he picked up the beer.

Dean gratefully pulled the new shirt down over his head, and the three hunters drank quietly for a few moments, letting the alcohol cool their throats and warm their blood. Finally, Bobby broke the silence with a clatter of glass when he tossed his empty into the "targets" bucket by the garbage and changed the subject. "So, Dean, any luck getting' food into th' kid, or did those sandwiches just go down yer gullet?"

Dean perked up. "Like there was any doubt," he reported, pleased with himself. "He ate more'n half of the sandwiches, and the shake, _and_ he took his vitamin. Kept it all down this time, too."

John glanced sharply at Dean. "This time?"

Dean straightened up like a lieutenant reporting to a general as he looked over to John. "The collar's gonna be a problem, Dad. He had a full-on panic attack over it."

John leaned forward, frowning. "He's got four weeks." He sipped his El Sol. "That should be more than long enough to get used to one strip of leather. Hell, _one_ week ought to be enough."

Dean frowned, fingers stripping the label off the bottle and depositing them into a soggy pile on the table. "I don't think it's exactly a choice, dad. It's not something he can just control – he threw up everything in his stomach after you left. He's not trying to be difficult, he's just keeps reliving…" he couldn't say it, just couldn't. "…We just need to go slow."

"Minnesota's not going to give us the _time_ to go slow." John's bottle arced gracefully, joining Bobby's in the bucket. The older alpha rolled his shoulders, working the stiffness out of his neck. "We've got a timeline to keep."

Dean narrowed his eyes, leaning in challengingly. " _You_ have a timeline. The law says six weeks, not four."

Before John could respond, Bobby rapped his knuckles sharply on the table. "Seems to me time ain't your biggest problem. If the kid can't keep anything down, he ain't gonna make it four weeks."

Dean drummed his fingers for a moment, idly spinning his half-stripped bottle in circles. "Look, he agreed to work on it with me, just… don't start out tomorrow by pushing him on it, okay?" _Please_ , he added silently.

John gave Dean a long, measured look at his son. "I'll do the best I can. But Dean–" he stood abruptly and stalked over to the fridge for another El Sol. "This is Sam's future on the line. There are times I'm going to make calls you don't like, and I need to know I can count on you to back me up."

The younger alpha took a deep breath, and nodded. "Understood."

"Anything else I should know?" He popped the cap off the beer with practiced familiarity, not even looking down at the bottle, eyes still fixed on Dean.

Dean considered it for a moment. "Well, I don't think he likes the pants you got him. He was in a shirt and skivvies when I got there, and didn't change into anything else, just got under the covers. Considering how freaked out he was by all the, uh, changes, I figure he's gotta have some real serious dislike to not wear them."

The older alpha snorted. "I have it on good authority that _that_ particular problem will resolve itself."

Then John looked critically at Dean, really looked at him, assessing the circles under his eyes and his rumpled clothes and the scent of exhaustion creeping in around the edges. "Bobby's right, you know. You need to take care of yourself. Go take my room upstairs and get some shut-eye. I'll need you sharp in the morning."

* * *

When John went upstairs to check on his boys, Dean was soundly asleep, face down on the pillow and one leg dangling off the bed. His clothes were piled haphazardly on the chair by the bed, and… was that one of Bobby's shovels under the bed? It was.

John smiled at it, pleased with Dean's resourcefulness with the weapons still on lockdown around their distressed omega. He pulled the door lightly closed – Dean had left it wide open, no doubt in case his brother needed him – and padded down the hall to Sam's bedroom.

Sam was curled up in the fetal position on what usually was Dean's bed. John was thankful the kid was still dressed in his shirt and underwear, since he'd once again kicked all the bedding onto the floor. One hand was tucked under his pillow; the other was crushing something to his chest – a shirt or something similar. Dean's shirt, he realized.

The omega's face was flushed again with fever, but far cooler than it had been the previous night. The smell of sweat and slick in the room was lighter than the night before, too. All signs that the worst of the transition was over.

John brushed his fingers lightly through his son's hair, focusing on letting the scent of comfort, love and security radiate out from him. Still soundly asleep, Sam nuzzled his head against his father's palm, instinctively trusting his alpha's touch.

John caressed his son's head one last time, then straightened up. Feeling like a hypocrite, he gently lifted the boy's laptop off the floor and took it with him as he left. Sam might trust him, but he needed to see for himself exactly what his son had spent the evening researching.

* * *

"Well, what did you _expect_ , John?" Bobby threw John's blankets down on the couch next to the eldest Winchester. John didn't have to see his face to know the beta was rolling his eyes.

"Thought he'd just go 'Sir yes sir' and fall in line?" Bobby thumped a pillow down on top of the blankets. "This is Sam we're talking about. The kid can't even take his _eggs_ over easy, so what in tarnation made you _this_ was going to be simple?"

John looked guiltily down at the cracked mug in his hands, ruined when he'd slammed it down on the table halfway through Sam's browser history. He didn't know why Sam's tangential research had made him as angry as he did; the boy had looked up all the information he'd asked, and he hadn't _forbidden_ him from looking up anything else.

At least only the mug took the brunt of that anger, and not the computer, which he closed gently and put to one side. "Man's got a right to hope, doesn't he?"

Bobby snorted. "Man's got a right to be stupid, too." He plucked the mug out of John's hands and dropped it into the trash. "Don't mean he needs to exercise it."

No, he was lying to himself. He knew why he had gotten angry: _Stanford._ Seeing it in the search history had been the red flag he couldn't help but charge. John wanted to blame the omega thing, he did, it would be easy to blame the overreaction on omega disobedience. But the truth was, Bobby was right. He and Sam didn't need his youngest son's change in status to butt heads; hell, their inability not to piss each other off was what had…

"Th' kid ain't doing anything you didn't teach him to do, John." The beta's voice lowered sympathetically. "Way I see it, he's making your life easier. All those searches aren't going to tell him anything but the god's honest truth – there ain't nowhere for him to go but through this. Now take your own advice to Dean and get a few hours of shuteye. God knows yer all gonna need it tomorrow."

Bobby turned off the lights, and a moment later John heard him climbing the stairs to his own room.

There was truth in the beta's words. It wouldn't be Sam if he just fell in line. And a part of John was grateful to know that Sam was still in there, even if it was that part of Sam that was going to make the next month hell for the both of them.

_Mary_ , he thought, _I hope you can forgive me for what I let happen to our boy, and for what I'm about to have to do._

He sighed and dropped his jacket to the ground, beginning to get ready for bed. _I hope I can forgive myself._


	17. Interludes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ripples from Hibbing continue to spread outwards.

It wasn't a big graveyard, but size didn't exactly matter when the target was an unmarked grave in an overgrown plot of land next to a kudzu-covered deconsecrated church. Rufus supposed the robbers must have thought they were doing the elderly priest a favor by burying him on any kind of church property. The deaths he'd caused on the anniversary of his unfortunate mid-mugging heart attack spoke otherwise.

By the time he had finally located and exhumed the priest's badly decomposed body, the moon was high in the sky. On the other side of the salt circle that protected Rufus, the flickering image of a wizened man with a clerical collar stared balefully across at the old hunter as he poured gasoline onto the bones he'd salted.

"Time to get this show on the road." The beta lit a match. "No offense, padre, but you kind of stink." He dropped it into the hole and watched it fall…

…just in time for the wind to pick up and blow it out.

"No, no, no," Rufus scolded the ghost. "You do _not_ get to cause problems now. I have a date with a fine bottle of whiskey back in my room tonight and I am _not_ going to be late." He sighed exasperatedly as the salt circle began to scatter in the breeze, keeping the ghost in sight as he unsuccessfully tried to shield the second match from the wind.

He looked up from the matchbox, third match in hand, just in time to see the last of the salt blow away. Instantly the priest blinked across the now-useless protective circle, reaching a ghostly hand inside Rufus's chest and squeezing.

Rufus gasped as an icy cold invaded his chest, his knees giving out under the pain. The matchbox dropped from his hand as he fell over, matches scattering on the ground beneath him. The priest followed him down, grinning in triumph as he squeezed the beta's heart tighter yet…

…only to vanish as Rufus grabbed the iron poker off the ground next to the grave where he'd left it, and brought it sharply up, straight through the apparition.

"Where the hell–" Rufus waved the poker wildly with one hand, the other scrabbling over the ground desperately looking for the matches while its owner kept his eyes scouting for danger. Where…?

"HA!" he yelled, fingers clenched around a match. He scraped it across his shoe – strike-anywhere matches, the hunter's best friend – and grinned as it flickered alight…

…and stayed lit all the way down into the grave. The apparition dissipated in a flourish of sparks as the corpse erupted in flame. Rufus sat there, letting his pulse slow as he caught his breath, then slowly stood up, leaning on the shovel for support.

"Don't seem right not returning you to your parish, but at least you're at rest now." The beta looked down solemnly on the priest's remains, watching as the fire guttered and went out. " _'_ _May His Great Name be blessed forever and to all eternity. Blessed and praised, glorified, exalted and extolled, honored, adored and lauded be the Name of the Holy One, blessed be He.'_ "

He shook his head and snorted. "Sorry, padre, that's as much of the Kaddish as I remember. I ain't qualified to give you the extreme unction, not that I know it in the first place, but it's the thought that counts, right?" He paused, then muttered, "Ah, hell. _'_ _In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spirtus Sancti, Amen_ ' for all the good it'll do ya, and excuse my terrible Church Latin _._ May wherever the heck you end up be better than the place you were before."

Then he dropped the first shovelful of dirt down into the hole as he hurriedly began to fill it up, thoughts on the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. A few shots to celebrate when he got back, he decided, then in the morning, he'd soak his aching bones in the hotel's hot tub.

And then… then he'd maybe think about starting off toward Minnesota to see about that request of Bobby Singer's.

* * *

"Found us another hunt." Steve tossed the paper at Reggie as he and the boys returned with provisions from the diner. "Over in Tacoma. It's a haunting, no deaths yet but ya never know when a ghost is gonna go off the deep end, right?"

"Washington?" On the far bed, Tim scowled, halfway through sharpening his knife collection. "That's not too far, but I'd rather go back first. I promised Molly that Jake and I'd be home in time for church on Sunday." He smiled at his son as he passed him a Styrofoam box with a burger and fries inside.

The other kid, Todd, dropped the remaining takeaway box on the bed next to Reggie and sat down next to him, eating carelessly as he read the article over his father's shoulder. "Sweet! A real live haunted house!"

"Hey!" Reggie yanked the article to one side when his son accidentally dropped a big blob of mayo onto his hand, nearly hitting the paper. "Watch it, kid."

The black hunter looked over contemplatively at the beta as he wiped off his hand. "I'm with Tim. Seems stupid to be cooling our heels out here to make sure Winchester doesn't think we bitched his boy."

Steve frowned and raised his eyebrows as he settled into the chair under the window with his own lunch. "Ya sure were eager to hightail it outta town back at the bitching, though." He shook his salad a few times to mix it up well, then opened the box and forked a big piece of lettuce into his mouth. "Braver now that there's a state or so in-between, hey?"

Jake snickered. A withering glance from his dad shut him up.

"Fuck yeah, of course we were eager," Reggie replied. "You wanna get between an enraged alpha who knows how to use heavy weaponry and the boy of his you just bitched? I don't recall you wanting to hang out, either."

Steve shrugged. "Never said I did. Just think maybe we'd be better off givin' it a little longer. It's not like we're _just_ hiding out, anyway – we did take down that vengeful spirit yesterday."

Todd tilted his head curiously. "What's so scary about him, anyway? So he's a hunter – well, so are we, and there's five of us and only two of them."

Tim looked up from his burger. "How many of you'd it take t' down his son?" Flecks of meat flicked from his lips as he spoke, mouth still half full of meat. "Six of ya, and it still took the sheriff t' actually do it, wasn't it?" He swallowed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Well, that kid learned how to fight from his daddy."

Todd looked down sullenly, rubbing his hand unconsciously over the place on his ribs where the bruising from Sam's punches had been worst.

"Shoulda taught him to stay outta other alphas' territories, then, too!" Jake leaned out from the dresser he was sitting on for a high-five, making the older boy smile and return it.

Steve sighed. "I just think we oughta give it a little longer. The kid probably won't remember us – but don't you think it'd be best to have been on th' other side of the map when it happened? No one holds a grudge like John Winchester. Nigh eighteen years and he still ain't given up revenge for his wife."

Tim looked thoughtful and pulled out his phone. "Gimme a minute." He dialed a number and waited until a warm alto voice picked up.

"Hiya Mols, just checkin' in." He smiled at her voice on the line. "We're done, but we caught wind of somethin' up'n Washington might need attention. Yeah, I _know_ , I know I promised, but – tell ya what, if I fix the gutters when I come back, will ya forgive me _then_? Yeah? That's my gal." He coughed. "So… anything exciting happen while I've been gone?"

He paused. "Really?" He paled a little, the smile dropping off his face. "That's too bad… The whole place?" Another pause. "Huh, Allie? Go figger. Just can't trust an O, can ya?"

Steve tuned out the rest of the phone call, polishing off his salad until Tim hung up. "Well?"

"Seems the kid broke free at the end and laid out two of the Benders, and then his dad burned the place to the ground while t' other brother held everyone up at gunpoint." Tim rubbed his hand over his bald spot nervously. "Now that I think of it, it ain't gonna hurt us to put a few more days between us'n there. Never know when a ghost is gonna go off the deep end."

* * *

Pastor Jim Murphy allowed himself a small glass of wine most nights. But on some evenings, when a hunt had been particularly bad and the darkness was haunted by the taint of evil, he allowed himself something slightly stronger.

Tonight, he sat at his desk with a glass of scotch in one hand and his journal in the other, laid open to an entry that began, " _I met with a young hunter today with two small children in tow. He asked to speak to me of a demon with yellow eyes."_

He flipped ten pages ahead: _"John left the boys with me last night after a hunt went terribly wrong. Whatever happened must have been bad; the younger one looks weak and exhausted, and the older guilt-ridden and ashamed."_ A photograph was tucked between the pages – Sammy in his bed all wan and tired, and Dean seated somber-faced at his feet, Taurus clutched in hands barely big enough to hold it. The older boy had hovered silently around his brother that entire visit, Jim remembered, refusing to let him out of his sight or sleep alone.

Another twenty pages forward. _"Sam asked me today, if God was good, why he wanted omegas to suffer."_

~~

_He had been in his rectory preparing his next sermon when Sam found him with his question._

_The visit wasn't entirely unexpected. Jim had taken him and his brother to the Giant Days festival in town – for some reason, both boys were fascinated with the tacky tourist attraction – and run into unexpected excitement in the form of a bounty hunter capturing an escaped omega. As soon as he'd realized what was happening, he'd hustled the boys away from the commotion, but not before both had had an eyeful of the omega strapped into the town's mostly unused stocks, and a line of passersby gleefully waiting for their chance to administer punishment._

_At times like that, he often thought Golding was right, that society was just a plane crash away from dancing around a pig's head on a pole. He'd like to blame it on the alpha need for submission and obedience, but betas could be just as cruel. Indeed, back at the fairgrounds, he'd seen betas George Wallert and Tom Rieber lined up for their turn, although Rieber at least had the decency to look ashamed when he met Jim's gaze._

_Just not enough to step out of the line._

_He'd followed up with the sheriff once he got the boys back to the church, made sure that a deputy would be on hand to protect the omega from undue cruelty, and wished he could do more._

_Now Jim turned to look at Sam, still two years away from presenting and already trying to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and tried to formulate a response to the question he sometimes still found himself asking._

_"Do you remember the Book of Genesis?"_

_Sam cocked his head to one side. "You mean how God made man from the parts of all the animals he'd made before?"_

_Jim smiled; Sam had always been a diligent student. "That's right, the wits of the fox, the dexterity of the monkey, the vision of the eagle, the ferocity of the wolf, the strength of the ass, the will of the bull–"_

_"–but man lived in anger and discord because the parts didn't know how to work together," Sam nodded sagely._

_"And so…" Jim prompted him._

_The boy sat down in one of the chairs and scooched it forward until he could lean on the desk. "So he went to the sheep, which was the only animal he hadn't used yet, and took its sense of community and added it to mankind, and that's what gave us designations. The folks who wanted to protect everyone, they became alphas, like the rams, bigger'n tougher'n the rest of the flock. And the ones who wanted to make sure the flock had stuff to eat and places to sleep, they became the betas."_

_Jim leaned forward in his chair, looking at Sam across the desk. "And what about the omegas?"_

_"Omegas are the ones that weren't strong or resourceful." The boy fidgeted with the frayed hem of the right sleeve. "They couldn't fight and they couldn't farm or be really clever like the betas, but they were kind and gentle and loving, so God didn't want to destroy 'em. And so instead he made 'em responsible for having kids, and made 'em extra good at it. But because they weren't strong, he made 'em haveta obey the alphas, for their own protection. And because they weren't smart, he made 'em haveta listen to the betas, for their own safety."_

_"Very good, Sam. I'm glad to see at least one of my parishioners actually listens to me." Jim raised an eyebrow. "Now, does that sound like God wanted omegas to suffer?"_

_He paused to think. "No, but–"_

_"When an omega suffers the way we saw today, Sam, it is not due to the will of God, but the will of Man."_

_"So?" Sam shook his head. "We hold alphas responsible for the behavior of their omegas. Shouldn't God be held responsible for the behavior of his alphas?"_

_"Ah," Jim countered. "Eventually, everyone answers to God – alpha, beta, and omega alike. But those in the flock whom he gifted with free will, the alphas and betas, they must also answer to themselves for their actions. Each must be held responsible unto himself, for that is the burden of free will."_

_The boy scowled. "So why didn't he just give the omegas free will, too? Then they could be responsible for themselves, even if it got 'em into trouble."_

_Jim smiled wanly. He'd asked himself that, too, more than once. "Perhaps he just loved them too much."_

~~

Jim closed the book and sipped at his drink. Bobby had called him that morning with the terrible news. That bright spark, potentially extinguished, certainly so unfairly dimmed. The beta steepled his hands in front of him, resting his chin on his thumbs and his forehead on his fingers.

John wanted vengeance, wanted to know of other hunters there who could aid him. And there _were_ hunters in that area of Michigan – in that town, even. Decent, god-fearing alphas, two with families and sons who were following in their footsteps. He looked broodingly over at his rolodex. It was inconceivable that Tim, Reggie and Steve had helped in such a barbaric act. But if he gave Bobby their names, could he really ask them to turn against their neighbors and deliver the kind of retribution John would demand?

And for all their good traits, they were coarse men, prone to the sins of the flesh and easily led into temptation by the more corrupt members of their town. It was possible they had known of Sam's turning and looked the other way. It was even possible, God forbid, that they had actually taken part, in which case telling Bobby about them would be akin to delivering them straight into the hands of vengeance incarnate. And while they would have certainly earned it, it would come in part from his hand.

The path of Sam's life was already forever changed. Could he bear witness against them, knowing that two more families would be torn apart as a result? Turning an alpha against his will was against the laws of God, of that he was sure, but it was not yet against the laws of man. Did Jim have the right to take the law into his own hand?

Then again, he was a hunter, too. And every time he hunted to protect God's flock, he took the law into his own hands.

Jim thought of Sam's young face, so serious and determined to do the right thing. He thought of the omega they had seen years back, panicked and afraid and helpless.

_Each must be held responsible unto himself._

The beta unfolded his hands and stood up, decision made. In the morning, he would make a round of calls. The innocent would be safe. And the guilty – the guilty would find themselves held responsible. He would make sure of it.

* * *

"How is Saginaw progressing, my daughter?"

A slender, manicured finger swirled the blood in the cup in lazy circles. "As well as you expected. We won't need to install anyone to keep the boy on track. His father and uncle are doing that admirably well on their own."

"Excellent. I am always amazed at how well humanity lives down to its reputation."

Lush pink lips exhaled wisps of smoke as they curled into a cruel smile. "Speaking of which, I've heard an interesting rumor about your special project, father."

"How so?"

"Word on the street is your golden boy's quite so golden anymore – except for his eyes, anyway. Little alpha got himself into trouble over in Minnesota that he couldn't get himself out of, got himself knocked down to bitchboy." Lipstick smudged on the cigarette. She exhaled, then stubbed it out on the arm of the dead man next to her, his face frozen in a horrified rictus, staring sightlessly down at the gaping wound where she'd ripped out his heart.

"I see."

She wiped her blade idly on a heretofore unbloodied spot on the corpse's arm. "Want me to find him? Could probably get him to the crossroads easily enough."

"Leave him for now. I'll investigate it myself, or send your brother. Your usefulness in Michigan is expended for the moment. Go to Minnesota, and uncover for me _exactly_ what happened, and why. This is… unexpected. But it may yet prove advantageous."

She smirked. "If you say so, father."

* * *

Sheriff Bender kicked back in his chair, feet on the desk, and looked at the red X he'd marked on the calendar. All things came to those who waited, after all, and lord knew, he could be a patient man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you're all waiting for the first real confrontation between John and Sam, and it's coming, I promise - in the very next chapter, which is more than halfway written. But this came first.
> 
> I apologize for the spontaneous theological discussion that erupted in Jim's reminiscences; you can place the blame for that entirely on young Sam, who insisted that two sentences from a journal weren't enough for that discussion. You can also blame and/or thank ereynolds, who asked me a very simple question that should have had a very simple answer, but which instead has resulted in unexpectedly profound effects on this world's theology and cosmology, as well as ripples and course corrections to the plot that won't appear for chapters yet. :)


	18. Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has a restless, increasingly terrible night. The situation looks bleaker in the morning, and he searches for any way to turn it around.

The clock on the nightstand said 3:13 when Sam finally gave up on rest for the night. He'd slept soundly for a while, especially while Dean was there. But for the last two hours, even with the blanket and sheets kicked off, he couldn't seem to nod off for more than 30 minutes at a time before the bed's prickliness made it impossible for him to stay comfortable. It wasn't particularly painful, more like an overload of sensation running up and down his skin. Probably some weird omega allergy to Bobby's fabric softener.

Fine then. If he was up, he was up. He grabbed one of his new shirts and a pair of underwear, then hesitated over the pants. He really wanted his jeans back, but they were fuck only knew where. And even if he _did_ , he'd still have to roll the cuffs up so far it was humiliating, so…

He might as well. If it sucked, no one besides him would know.

It took him a little while to figure out how the straps and the legs worked, but eventually he was able to pull them up and adjust himself before snapping the hips closed. The pants were comfortable, and he noted that the fabric actually felt very nice against his skin, very soft and silky.

That said, there was no way in _hell_ he was wearing them.

First off, the built-in jockstrap/cup thing wasn't designed to work with underwear. If he wore the pants, he'd have to go commando underneath, and that was just… no.

Secondly, there was no way to put this politely, but – they were pants to be fucked in. There was literally no other reason to design them this way. The snaps that ran up each hip held stopped right below the belt loops – which were also fastened with snaps. When the sides and back belt loops were unsnapped, the whole back of the pants could be lowered like a flap, leaving the front held in place by the belt. The cup in front was attached to the top and held in place by straps that circled each leg, leaving his ass unobstructed… and when you lowered the back flap, it tightened up the straps, sealing the cup close to the body and locking his dick away from stimulation.

It wasn't like anyone cared about an omega's cock, after all.

He couldn't figure out the purpose of the little ring on the bottom of the cup until he found the "optional strap" he'd missed in the pants' packaging. When attached, it ran from the base of the cup up his ass like a thong, attaching to the belt on top. It also had two sliding knots near its base; one rested against his perineum, the other approximately over his asshole.

He discovered what the knots were for unintentionally. Leaning forward to check the bag for any other missing parts pulled the strap up in back, pressing it tightly against his anus and sending a jolt of unexpected pleasure crackling through him. He jerked back wildly in panic and lost his balance, dropping to his knees to avoid toppling backwards. That pulled the strap forward, running the other knot across against his perineum.

Sam's thoughts exploded into fireworks. He whimpered, breathing heavily, leaning on the bed with both hands as he scrambled to escape the two unrelenting pressure points. Humiliatingly, the smell of slick began to thicken the air.

_No._ Just no.

He methodically stripped out of his shirt and pants, pulling on a pair of briefs instead. On autopilot, he took all three pairs of pants his father had bought for him _(couldn't have known what they were, John couldn't have wouldn't have known wouldn't want that please no)_ and hid them in the back of the bottom dresser drawer, far out of sight. Then he mechanically walked into the bathroom, got in the shower, and turned the cold water on full blast.

Some time later, Sam realized that the smell of slick was gone and his skin was beginning to wrinkle.

He probably should have taken the underwear off first, he thought absently as he stopped the shower, stripping the sodden pair off and dropping it to the tiles. He dried himself quickly and impersonally, eyes firmly fixed on the wallpaper so he couldn't see himself in the mirror. Then he wrapped a towel around his waist and found a new pair of briefs.

It was almost 5 a.m., he noted clinically. He'd lost close to two hours.

Fortunately, it didn't seem like anyone else was up. He opened the bedroom door and padded down the hall. Somewhere in this house, there had to be an actual pair of goddamn pants.

* * *

Sam could hear Bobby's snores from his bedroom at the far end of the hall. He couldn't hear Dean, but he didn't need to – he could see him, asleep in the little bedroom at the top of the stairs where their father usually bunked. Since the other bed in Sam's room was untouched, that meant John was slumbering somewhere below.

As long as he moved quietly and kept his emotions – and pheromones – tightly under wraps, he could probably keep from waking any of them up.

The scent of sleeping alpha curled around the doorway as Sam approached the stairs, underlaid with exhaustion and stress. Even though they'd rested together the night before, Dean smelled somehow sharper than Sam remembered, his scent distinct, easy to identify, and hard to ignore. Heady, too, he thought, nostrils flaring as he breathed in deeply.

It looked like his brother had gotten as far as his boxers before losing the fight to sleep. He was passed out on top of the covers, face smooshed against the shoulder of his right arm as it curved up and over his pillow. The position pulled his grey t-shirt up above his waist, exposing his not-quite-six-pack abs, and his shorts had scrunched down ever so slightly, revealing the tips of his hips and the light dusting of hair on his belly that led down to–

Sam realized he had subconsciously opened his mouth so he could scent Dean even more fully. He felt like he was nine again, seeking comfort in the new smell of _safe-comfort-love-alpha_ that had somehow sprung up from his brother overnight. As often as he could, he'd wait like a little creeper until his brother went to shower and then hop into his bed, pulling the covers up over his head and curling up in the sheets. The scent promised him that even though monsters were real, even though they had taken his mother and made his father have to go away sometimes for days at a time, everything was still safe and right because his big brother was there to protect him.

But not always, he thought darkly, and not from all monsters.

Sam's smile faded. Sooner or later you grew up and found out that your big brother couldn't protect you from everything. Sooner or later you found out you couldn't even protect yourself. He snapped his jaw shut and looked away, avoiding the squeaky step as he descended the stairs.

If his dad was downstairs, he was probably sleeping in the living room, most likely on the couch. It wasn't uncommon to find him or Bobby there after a bad hunt. Sometimes he and Dean would even find _both_ of the older hunters there, passed out with a bottle of Jim Beam between them and the television still on.

Sam padded quietly into the kitchen instead, suddenly fixated with the idea of eating something that wasn't being fed to him. It was still too dark to see well, but and he didn't want to turn on the lights if he could help it.

As a result, the fridge light almost blinded him when he opened the door. After his eyes adjusted, he went to grab a soda, only to realize that the comfortingly familiar topography of Bobby's grungy fridge door had changed. Gone were the cans of coke and the shelf of two-years old mustard and questionably-still-good ketchup and probably-no-longer-good pickles. In their place sat a row of pristine white bottles, each with an omega symbol on it.

The rest of the fridge had also been cleaned and rearranged, although not so radically as the door. The top two shelves were full of uncooked food, but Bobby's beer supply still took half of the bottom shelf, sharing space with – _ah-ha!_ – Tinfoil and Tupperware. Which meant leftovers, which meant food that normal _(non-omega)_ people got to eat. He rummaged through the leftovers – chili, stew, tuna-noodle thing, something congealed with chicken and peas in it, cold clumped spaghetti, wilted salad that should have been tossed a day ago, half a burger – before settling on the tuna-noodle thing. Then he shoved the rest of the boxes back in the fridge, grabbed a fork from the drying rack by the sink (Bobby's dishes never quite made the trip from the rack to the actual cabinets), and turned to the table to sit and think while he ate.

Except.

Except his chair was gone. It was stupid, there were _(had been)_ four chairs and none of them were assigned but somehow he always had his chair and Dean had _his_ , on opposite sides of the table, but now it was gone, and–

His eyes tracked down. There was a pillow now, on the ground, between Dean's chair and the chair where John always sat. He couldn't make much out about it other than its square shape, didn't want to either.

Sam put the food down on the table blindly. _What had he been expecting, really?_

The same calm that overtook him upstairs in the shower tried to steal over him. He fought against it, refusing to disappear into that comforting fugue. He couldn't afford to lose any more hours. He had a burning need to see, to _know_ how bad it was going to be _._

After a few minutes of near-panic, the stress parted into a blissful clarity, something like the calm he'd felt before but somehow simultaneously more focused and more distant. He felt like he was sitting outside of himself, an impartial observer witnessing the deconstruction of his life.

* * *

The living room was worse than the kitchen. He almost started to laugh, but choked it back, for fear of waking his father slumbering on the couch.

The house hadn't known a woman's touch as long as the Winchesters had known Bobby. It had always been a dusty paper-and-book-covered mess, one or two guns or knives out on the coffee table for cleaning or upkeep (they'd known better than to touch them from a very young age). If they showed up in the few days after a bad hunt, or anytime close to the anniversary of Bobby's wife's death, there'd be a brace of empty bottles littering the floor as well. It was a drunken old widower's house, the only lasting signs of femininity a few cross-stitched sayings on the wall.

Now? It looked like a sultan's harem had thrown up in it. There were large, fluffy pillows all over the floor – by the chairs, in front of the couch, by the fireplace, over in the corner. The furniture had even been rearranged to make more room for them. It was a good tell as to where John's mind was at, because this was complete, ridiculous, expensive, guilt-ridden overkill. In a world where most omegas just had one or two pillows they were expected to carry around with them from place to place, it was almost an apology. Almost.

The laptop was on the ground to the left of the couch, resting on one of the pillows. Sam padded silently over to it, marveling how this strange clarity came with apparently complete mastery of his pheromones. Then again, he supposed, his scent was largely dependent upon his emotions. No emotions, no pheromones.

He thought idly that he liked this state better. Maybe he could figure out how to stay in it permanently.

The laptop whirred awake from its sleep cycle as soon as he opened its lid. He let it run just long enough to see the open browser history that confirmed his suspicions, then closed the lid again.

_John had been checking up on him._

He wasn't mad about it; it's what he would have done in John's shoes. Then again, at the moment he wasn't mad, or happy, or scared about anything. Maybe he would find out he was angry later…

As he let the laptop quietly fall back onto the pillow, a glint of metal on the floor next to it caught his eye. It was a small, curved thing, just an exposed loop screwed into the ground with a d-link attached to it.

Just a handy place to attach a leash when you couldn't be bothered to hold it anymore.

An omega hook.

So much for "discussing things as a family." John had it all set up, had it planned out and ready to implement: clothing, food, pillows, collars, leashes, hooks–

Sam's breath caught in his throat, emotions threatening to envelop him. He'd known, deep down, that John's speech to him had to have been all for show, but he hadn't _known_ known. Deep in his heart, he'd wanted to believe that in the wake of everything that had happened, his father honestly finally understood that what Sam needed was to feel like his opinion mattered. He'd even prepped his arguments for tomorrow based on the belief that John might actually listen to him, might see how he hadn't really changed all that much. How he could still carry his weight.

But _no_. It was the same as it had ever been – John knew best, and to hell with anyone who disagreed. So much for wanting Sam's input. Bitterness bubbled up inside him like bile. His father had already made up his mind to turn Sam into the family pet.

He felt himself sink back into his body, dragged down by the hook, his calmness cracking under the fear that wanted to close in. He was probably seconds away from stinking the room up with panicked omega, which would wake John and bring Dean running. He needed to get out – calm down – _think_.

He retreated to the kitchen, leaning panting against the table as he got his breathing under control. He glowered at the goddamn pillow, kicking at it vengefully, only to bite back a curse when his foot collided with yet _another_ omega post screwed into the floor.

The pain jolted him back to his senses. He clenched his eyes and his teeth and waited for the throbbing to subside. When the throbbing ache was gone, so was the fear. He knew what he had to do.

Carefully, quietly, Sam retrieved the leftovers from the table, even though his appetite was gone. He needed to come up with an entirely new plan and had only an hour or so to do it, and for that, he'd need energy.

After a moment, he reluctantly grabbed one of the omega drinks from the fridge. As much as he hated to admit it… the shakes hadn't actually tasted all that bad.

* * *

When Sam got back to the room, the first thing he did was throw out all of the artfully constructed arguments he'd labored over the night before. Not the statistics, he might still need those – but all the evidence he'd gathered in favor of hunting as an omega. There was no point in keeping them now.

Stanford was still his ace in the hole, assuming he still had a scholarship, and that he could find a way to get there. He hadn't gotten a chance to call them yet, nor (he presumed) had Bobby. There was no question his father would forbid it, but if he could find a way to get there, he might be able to claim sanctuary or something. He wasn't clear entirely yet on California's O-laws, but everyone knew the state was better than Minnesota… or South Dakota, for that matter.

Stanford aside, hunting as an omega had been the only tolerable answer Sam could see, not to mention the only viable future John had ever intended for Sam in the first place. Of course, ironically, now that Sam saw it as a viable future it was clear that his father no longer felt that way.

That was the one incontrovertible fact: his father had already decided upon the course of action he was bound and determined to take.

Now, anyone who hunted with John Winchester either learned how to work around his attitude or left cussing a blue streak and vowing never to work with him again. It was probably a holdover from his military days, the _my-way-or-the-highway mindset_ that had made him more than one enemy over the years.

Working with John went a little like this: If you thought John was wrong, he was still right, and expected you to act on that. If he said the thing killing people was a poltergeist, you planned for taking out a poltergeist. Now, he would never call you out for _also_ planning how to kill a knocker or a demon or whatever you thought it was.

John Winchester was no fool. He was just dead certain that he was right.

Which, for the record, he often was. There was a reason he had the reputation he did as a hunter. When he was right, hunts went as smooth as – well, as smooth as a hunt against an undead spirit of vengeance _could_ go.

But when John was wrong, it wasn't enough to be right yourself. You had to be prepared not just for what it was, but for what it wasn't, and be ready to switch between plans at a moment's notice.

It was a lot like poker, really; know your cards, guess your opponent's cards, and be ready to change strategy on the fly. Fortunately, Sam had had 18 years to learn how to play against his father. Yes, John had a strong hand, but that didn't mean he was folding just yet.

He just needed to figure out a strategy, something that would get the man to see _Sam_ , the hunter he'd raised for 18 years, and not the weak omega everyone thought Sam had somehow transmuted into.

There was something his father had said to him once, on one of the many nights he'd spent teaching Sam and his brother how to win at poker… _"What do you do when you're a thousand in the hole and all you're holding is a pair of twos?"_ That was him, now, no aces, straights, or royal flushes, just a pair of deuces and everything on the line. Rock-bottom.

He didn't know if he could win, but he could maybe stay in the game, if he could just remember what the answer to that question had been.

At 6 a.m., he found it.

* * *

John rolled out of bed at seven, shutting his alarm off and enjoying the house's momentary quiet. He stood up and stretched, working the kinks out of his back and shoulders. Then he dressed quickly and went upstairs.

Dean was laid out flat on the bed, dead to the world and still half-dressed from the night before. Like the skilled hunter he was, he snapped to life the minute John woke him.

"Morning, buddy." John smiled as his son rolled into a sitting position, rubbing a hand across his eyes to clear away the sleepy seeds. He clasped a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed gently. "Get yourself together, then go see to your brother. I want you both downstairs in fifteen. I'll get coffee started in the meantime."

John was halfway through his morning joe fourteen minutes later when Dean thumped his way downstairs in ratty grey sweats, a black t-shirt, and a wide-eyed, slightly embarrassed expression. He handed Dean the cup he'd poured – black, just like his old man took it – and sipped again at his own coffee, inhaling its bitter aroma. "Your brother on his way down?"

Dean sputtered into his cup. "He's, uh… I think – I decided to let Sammy sleep in a little longer."

John raised his eyebrows. "Kid's done practically nothing _but_ sleep the last few days, Dean."

Dean flushed and avoided meeting John's gaze. "Yeah, well, he was still asleep and dreaming when I went to wake him up, and…" he scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, "…uh, let's just say, he was in the middle of a very happy dream."

John put the coffee down on the table and peered at his son. Without the acrid brew clogging his nostrils, he finally got a good whiff of _omega_ clinging to Dean.

_Oh._ "You mean–"

" _Exceptionally_ happy," Dean blushed. "I, uh, I opened the window fast and left."

John nodded. "Good call. Today's going to be hard enough on your brother without starting it off all embarrassed to hell and back." He sighed. "All right, change of plans – go get your sneakers and we'll log a couple miles, and _then_ wake your brother. We've been slacking what with everything that's happened, so it's about time we picked up the pace again anyway."

It took a great deal of internal reserve not to laugh at the comical relief that washed across Dean's face as the boy all but scrambled to get out of the house into the fresh air.

* * *

Up to the point where he'd heard his father's footstep trigger the warning stair, Sam hadn't been sure he could go through with it.

_Every opponent has a weakness. That's your target. No matter how fragile your position is, there's always an opening._

He had a plan, but for the plan to work, he needed both alphas to leave the house so he could move around unchaperoned. And since his new physiology made them at least as uncomfortable as Sam himself, he was pretty sure he'd figured out a surefire way to accomplish that.

Hypothetically, at least.

It could, of course, backfire terribly in a number of ways, but for a pair of alphas who could face down death without flinching, they'd always been hilariously awkward about discussing anything about sex with Sam. "The talk" had consisted of John all but throwing a book at him and telling him he'd be happy to talk about any questions that it didn't answer, and Dean handing him a box of condoms and telling him, "Wrap it before you tap it."

So given all that, he was pretty sure that he could scare them both out of the house if the alternative was dealing with waking up a slicked-up omega brother in the middle of a wet dream.

If he could get through it without throwing up, which was a big _if_.

Awakening with a wet ass the day before had been bad enough. And the dreams – it was like waking up one day and suddenly being sexually attracted to something you'd never given a damn about before. And then there was the whole traumatic thing with the pants earlier that morning.

No, his brain had absolutely no interest in being sexual right then. Maybe ever. The idea of _purposely_ getting himself wet, of making himself smell like… _(an O, I can smell your slick now, good little whore, that's what Os are good for)_ like… _(you smell like a good fuck)_ like _that_ – was horrifying.

But necessary. _Just do it, don't think about it._ Easier said than done.

He'd tried just to masturbate at first, but he couldn't get past the feeling of the ridges of his scarred fingers sliding over the alien topography the piercings had made of his dick. All that rose was an impending sense of panic; he didn't get hard, not even with his regular go-to fantasy of a cute little beta with long blonde curls and curves in all the right places. Another thing to be filed away in the _crises-to-be-dealt-with-later_ department. At this rate, he was going to have a freak-out for days when this was all over.

Theoretically, there were other places he could put his fingers, but he just… he couldn't. Half of what happened in the barn was still a nightmare blur to him, but he could remember enough. More than enough.

Finally, reluctantly, he remembered the pants strap. It was obviously designed to stimulate the omega wearing it regardless of whether he wanted it to. His stomach guttered at the thought of using it intentionally, of doing _that_ to himself. But it would work.

It was almost funny; here he was planning to smell like a bitch in hopes of avoiding ending up like one. Hysteria roiled sourly in his stomach, threatening to curdle its way up out of him. He clenched his teeth, trapping it inside. _Man up, Winchester. A good hunter uses every tool he's got at his disposal. If you can't hack it, better just roll over like the bitch they think you are._

Jaw locked in determination, he snuck across the floor. Praying his brother didn't hear him, he opened the drawer and snatched the strap, then darted back to his bed.

His brother's advice from his very first hunt echoed in his head: _Do the job, get it done, and if you gotta cry, do it where no one else can tell._

How had the strap gone? That's right, small knot near the base, larger knot _oh god there_. Almost instantly, the smell of slick began to blossom. He forced himself to lie on his stomach, left hand behind his back anchoring the strap at waist level, right hand in front of him, down below his dick where everything was too smooth and hairless _(where his balls should have been_ ), almost level with the ring those assholes had inserted there.

_Don't think_. He pulled the strap forward and back, letting the bumps roll over and across him in a sawing motion and burying his face in the pillow to filter out as much of the scent as possible. _Get it done._ Oh, how he missed the pleasant gray fugue from earlier. It had faded away some time ago, leaving only a sense of dread and the bleak recognition of what lay ahead of him.

The knots _(just like an omega, any knot'll do)_ did their work. He could feel liquid dripping out, saturating his thighs – _was that much normal? How did omegas ever go out in public without being humiliated? Oh yeah, right, they didn't_ – and soaking into the sheet below him. Found that horrible alien passion rising up in his groin, cock hardening defiantly. It was easiest if he just thought of his body like it was somebody else's, not even connected to him. Someone else was panting, rutting into the bed. Someone else's hole was clenching.

The knots kept him from being entirely successful at dissociating himself from what was happening. From what he was doing to himself, no one else to blame this time. All on him.

And the absolute worst part was that horrible as it was, it felt _good_. Sam wondered absently if there was ever going to be a time again when he didn't associate arousal with nausea.

Steps in the hall told him the moment of truth had arrived. He balled up the strap in one hand to hide it and pulled both arms into a more natural position, then pushed his hips up under the blanket, making sure his face was turned away from the door. The room stank of him; hopefully the slick would cover the distress he was sure was also there. It was the best he could do.

There was a knock. "Sammy?" Then the door opened. "Hey, kiddo, time–"

Two steps into the door, Dean's alpha pheromones burst into being, embarrassment and awkwardness tinged with discomfort and no small amount of arousal _(sorry, Dean)_. He was amazed how easy it was to identify everything despite his own heavy scent.

"So, uh, yeah…" he heard Dean continue dazedly, "time to… to…" he trailed off and inhaled deeply.

Sam squirmed slightly and let out what he hoped could pass for a breathy whimper.

"…Okay, geez," Dean said, almost under his breath, like he was psyching himself up for something. "I got this." Then he heard his brother move swiftly across the room to the window. "Wish I was having as much fun as you are right now, kid."

Sam was glad his face was buried in the pillow; it muffled the involuntary laugh that choked out of him at the idea that he was having any kind of fun at all. He wanted to get away from the scent as much as Dean did. Probably more.

He heard the window unlock, then Dean huffed, "Let me just – _nnff_ – get this– _urk–_ " And then the window slid open, flooding the room with the crisp morning air.

"Oh thank god. That's better. Whew. Get this place aired out a little." Dean was talking too much, like he always did when he got nervous. "I'll just, uh, yeah. Okay. I'll go. You just… finish up here and wake up." He heard the footsteps retreat and the door close.

Sam forced himself to stay in position, praying his father didn't come up to check on him. One minute passed… then five, then ten. His dick wilted and he sighed in relief; he'd never felt less like coming in his life.

When the front door slammed, he crept to the window to confirm that his family was jogging away from the house, then vaulted into the bathroom and threw himself into the shower, turning the hot water on to full. As it pounded down on him, almost scalding his skin, he realized he was still holding the goddamn strap.

Sam flung the strap across the shower and let himself collapse against the tile. As the water burned his shame away, he leaned back and took a deep breath. The bluff had worked.

_Stage two: Getting some goddamn fucking pants._

* * *

Sam toweled off furiously, alert for any sign that Bobby was up and about as he pulled on his briefs and one of his new shirts. The billowy cloth was still completely impractical for anything but lounging about, but he had to admit it was comfortable. But he couldn't just go around half-dressed. He needed armor, needed to feel covered up _(safe)_ from prying eyes. Far too many people had gotten a look at areas that were in fact specifically named privates for a reason. The way he felt right now, he'd be perfectly fine going without anyone ever seeing them again.

They'd taken his clothes away like they'd taken the rest of his choices. As if doing so would take away all his options. But he was _John Winchester's_ kid. Their father had always taught his sons to think outside the box. Time to remind him of that.

When he opened the bedroom door, he could hear the distant sound of the beta's shower running. _Perfect_. Wrapping a towel over his briefs, Sam dashed down the hall. He stopped up short in Dean's room, surprised to find that his brother's scent still hit him almost as strongly as it had when the alpha was sleeping there. Staring at the now-empty bed, he flashed back to his earlier longing to roll around in the sheets like a pup. Mind you, Dean's dirty laundry was now dumped out on the bed (which come to think of it probably should have bothered him more than it did) but even so…

_No_. Stick to the plan.

He leaned down and flipped the covers up as he peered under the bed. As he'd expected, Dean had kicked his duffel bag halfway underneath it, the way he always did at Bobby's ever since the old hunter had called him out for not hiding his _Busty Beta Beauties_ porn mags good enough to keep Sam out of them.

He smiled at the memory as he pulled out the bag and dropped it unceremoniously on the bedspread to root around in it. After a quick search, he struck pay dirt: a clean pair of jeans. Well-worn and stained, for sure, but clean.

_Bingo_.

Sam dropped the towel, balancing on one foot as he yanked the pants up the other leg, then hopping around as he reversed the pose to pull up the other leg and shimmy the waist over his hips. He rummaged around in the duffel for Dean's spare belt and cinched the pants closed, then rolled up the cuffs one by one so he wouldn't trip himself.

Once again he felt like a little kid dressed up in his big brother's clothes. It shouldn't have been as comforting as it was.

Sam looked longingly at the bed a third time, then down at his watch. _Five minutes._ Hating himself for not being stronger, he glanced around in embarrassment, then leaned over and pressed his nose into the bed. His fists clenched the sheets as he breathed it all in.

_Safe. Comfort. Home. Alpha._

He inhaled deeply once, twice, three times. Then he made himself stand up, turn around, and walk downstairs without looking back. When he reached the bottom, he was surprised to realize that his hand, in some alien volition, had snatched up Dean's dirty boxers from the bed. Flushing a bright crimson, he stuffed them into the front pocket of his jeans and marched himself into the kitchen.

* * *

Dean reached the house before John did, slapping his hand against the door triumphantly. "Ha! Take that, old man!" The run had been just what he needed, a fast pounding pace to flush out all the tension that had built up over the past few days.

Reaching the porch a mere 10 seconds behind, John grinned. It was good to see Dean's smile again. He paused, his expression settling into a more serious gaze. "You ready to check on Sam now?"

Dean's smile faded. "Yeah. I guess." His shoulders slumped down. "Think he's up yet?"

John pushed the door open. "Let's hope so."

* * *

The eggs and bacon were warming in the oven and Sam was waiting at the table when John and Dean returned from their run. He could smell them the minute they entered the house, sweat and accomplishment flooding in behind them. Had it always been that easy to scent them? He didn't think so.

The door banged loudly shut behind them. After that, he heard low conversation in the living room, quickly stumbling to a stop – probably because of Bobby, assuming he still had the _leave-me-out-of-yer-damn-drama_ attitude he'd adopted that morning. His always-grumpy expression had soured further when he'd walked into the kitchen to see Sam sitting in a chair at the table, in jeans, without a collar, and eating his eggs and bacon from a plate like a normal human being.

…No, that wasn't fair to the beta. What he'd actually said to Sam was, "Good to see that you're feeling better," as he scooped up eggs out of the bowl and added a few strip of bacon. He'd added, "Thanks for making breakfast," as he grabbed a fork, followed by, "Seems t' me ya don't need one more person stickin' his nose in yer business, so I'll be in the other room unless ya need me." And honestly, that was better than Sam had expected.

And irrelevant to what he needed to focus on now, he reminded himself, collecting his whirlwind thoughts and counting breaths to calm down.

The kitchen door opened, and his father walked in. Then he stopped short, an unidentifiable expression on his face as he took in his wayward son. "Sam."

Sam breathed, _in-out-in-out-in_ , then forced himself to meet his father's eyes. "Dad." Then he broke the gaze before it could be interpreted as disrespectful. "I made breakfast. It's, uh, in the oven, I'll get it. You said you wanted to discuss the situation as a family. I thought it'd go a bit easier over food."

Dean crowded in behind John, saw Sam, and groaned, literally groaned, furrowing his brows. "Sammy, what the hell are you– hey, are those my–"

Sam continued before Dean could really interrupt him. "You asked me to do research and tell you what I think needs to happen, Dad. Well, I did, and I'm ready to talk about it. I know things are going to change from here on out, I'm not in denial about that." He pushed his empty plate away, across the table. "But before that happens… let me have this last discussion as your brother–" he looked at Dean, who met his eyes, then glanced guiltily away "–and your son–" John's eyes softened slightly "–before I become just the family's omega. Give me that much dignity."

He stood up swiftly as Dean opened his mouth, silencing whatever he was going to say by clattering his chair away from the table, out of their reach. He grabbed the eggs and bacon from the oven, turning it off, and set them down in the middle of the table, then grabbed the plates and silverware he'd stacked on the table and placed a set in front of the two alphas' chairs. He swiftly dished out the food, then retrieved his chair and sat back down before looking softly back at his father.

After a moment, John slowly nodded – a peace offering. "Okay, son. We can do that."

He stepped forward and took a seat, pulling the plate towards him. "Sit down, Dean. Don't let the breakfast your brother went through all the trouble of making get cold."

As awkward family breakfasts went, it was one of the worst. John ate swiftly and mechanically, eyes moving between Sam and Dean. Dean did the opposite – pushed the eggs around on his plate and scowled, tapping his fingers on the table and not looking at anyone. Sam sat back in his chair, fighting the urge to scratch at his stupidly itchy jeans and forcing himself to sit upright in his chair, and hating the parasite for how it wanted him to grovel before the disapproval of his alphas. Right as John finished, Dean finally mastered whatever internal struggle he'd been wrestling and wolfed his food down, clearly barely tasting it.

Then they both looked at Sam.

He looked back at them steadily with the poker face John had taught him.

"You asked me to look at all the options and give you my suggestions for what we do next." Sam folded his hands in front of him to stop their fidgeting. "So I did, I read up on everything you asked me to and some other stuff as well, and I've got a course of action figured out. But, uh – talking about this is hard for me, so can you just let me get it all out first, without interruptions, and then we can talk about the pros and cons afterwards?"

John straightened up, frowning, but finally nodded. "So long as you understand that we're only agreeing to listen to your proposal. The final decision is mine."

Sam nodded back. "I understand. I know what I'm suggesting isn't going to be easy – for any of us – but I think it's the best option I've got. All I ask is that you keep an open mind and really consider it."

He knew his father would be expecting him to argue in favor of keeping hunting and ignoring or hiding his change in status, and that he would already have reasons lined up to reject any arguments along that tack.

_What do you do when you're a thousand in the hole and all you're holding is a pair of twos?_

If Sam wanted John to listen to him, really listen, he had to shake his father's expectations to the core – let him think he knew what was coming and then blindside him with something that would throw him entirely off-balance. It was a risky gambit at best.

Quixotically, he had everything and nothing to lose.

"I want a week, a week where I'm just Sam, your son, your brother, not Sam-the-ex-alpha, Sam-who-got-bitched, Sam-the- _omega_." He could already smell John's resistance growing and barreled ahead. "Just one week where we don't talk about what happened to me or what I am now, and treat me the way you always have. We can spar, train, take a camping trip, whatever, maybe even find an easy hunt in the wilderness, some way to–" _fuck it, not tears, not now_ "–some kind of closure on the way everything used to be."

He raised his hand as his brother opened his mouth. "Let me _finish_ , Dean."

His hand was shaking. _Dammit_. He jammed the hand into his jeans pocket, trying not to blush when his fingers touched Dean's shorts, and focused his will, all too aware that the scent of distressed omega was beginning to saturate the room. _His_ scent.

"I know it can't be permanent. I'm not asking for permanent. I'm asking for a _week_." He took a deep breath. "And at the end of that week, I want you to drive me to California and sell me to an omega rehab center."

_What do you do when you're a thousand in the hole and all you're holding is a pair of twos?_

_You raise._


	19. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and John react to Sam's proposal. (For those of you following along on the SPNKink_Meme LJ, this chapter has been _significantly_ revised and edited.)

_"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FRICKIN' MIND, SAM?!?!"_

It was a joke. Had to be. Except their father was sitting there thoughtfully, looking like he was actually considering it, and Sam wasn't smirking. Wasn't smiling. Wouldn't meet Dean's eyes.

Sam was _serious_.

Dean looked over at John, willing the family patriarch to put an end to whatever game Sam was playing at so they could get on with the real conversation. Except–

"Sam, I… this wasn't the suggestion I expected you to make – well, the second part, at least," John said gravely. He sipped at his coffee. "But I'm willing to hear you out."

The scrape of Dean's chair as it slid violently across the floor cut through whatever fucked-up, unspoken game of one-upmanship the pair thought they were playing. Two sets of eyes stared at him in surprise.

He was standing up, Dean realized. When had that happened? He was standing up, and his hands were trembling, and he was fucking _vibrating_ with the effort it took to restrain himself from physically shaking some sense back into his brother.

"No. No _fucking_ way," his voice cracked as he strained to keep from shouting. "Dad, you can't actually be considering this, can you? Those clinics are torture chambers. You know the kind of stuff they could do to him there?"

"Dean..." His father's voice rumbled a warning, low but stern.

"Screw that!" A fist thumped down on the table – his fist, apparently – knocking over Sam's mug and sending John's fork skittering off the plate to clatter on the floor. "They offered to _castrate_ Sam for us back in Minnesota, Dad, or did you fucking forget that already? No way are we leaving him at one of those places. They'll fuck him up five ways from Sunday and –"

The clatter of dishes interrupted his tirade as Sam carelessly (and intentionally, Dean was sure) gathered up all the dishes and deposited them loudly in the sink. Then the omega turned around, frustration clear and sour in the air, underlaid by something sour that Dean couldn't quite identify…

"It's _my_ choice, Dean." His mouth was pursed in that same familiar scowl that had presaged every fight between him and their dad since Sam presented.

_…Anger_. That was what Dean was smelling. On alpha Sam, it had been so common it was practically an ingrained part of his scent, but as an omega… on omega Sam, it was just wrong.

This was some kind of fucked-up power play, it had to be. Well, if Sam wanted a fight, he could give it to him. "Not any more, Sammy. You abdicated that right when you–"

" _Dean._ " John's voice was just one shade below a full Command. "Sit down. You too, Sam. _Now._ "

Glaring at his father, Dean sat, but made no effort to stem the confusion, anger and betrayal simmering off of him.

Sam stalked rigidly back to the table and sat down, purposely angling his chair squarely toward John, away from Dean. The silence hung thick and heavy between them for a few moments, until John nodded again at Sam. "Go ahead, Sam."

Dean's jaw ached with the force of clenching it shut.

* * *

Sam purposely avoided Dean's glower, fixating instead on meeting John's gaze without flinching – something he would've had no problem doing just four days ago, which in itself was totally fucked up, another "gift" from the parasite growing inside him telling him to sit down and shut up. _Fucking pheromones._

He counted out two pauses to center himself and get his thoughts in order, then began. "I'm not crazy, or suicidal. I'm rational. Logically, me going to a clinic is the best option we've got. If I had a choice –" he grimaced. "–well, out of the choices I _do_ have, I'd rather stay and be a hunter. But it's been made clear to me that _that_ isn't a possibility."

"No shit, Sam," Dean interrupted. "You're an omega now, your whole biology goes against–"

_"DEAN."_ John gave his older son a sharp look.

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother. "So if I'm a civilian – 'permanently benched,' didn't you say, Dean?" and he couldn't stop the spiteful tone in his voice even though he tried "– then you carting me around as the Winchester _omega_ ," he spit it out like the curse word it was, "is a mistake, perpetuated by sentimentality. An unacceptable risk."

He ran his fingers through his bangs. "As long as I've been alive, even before I knew what it was, the hunt always comes first. Saving people, hunting things, getting revenge on whatever killed mom – those have always taken top priority. Nothing's ever been as important as the family business, not school, not sports, not jobs, not dating. And I hated it, fought against it, but… I _do_ get it. I get why it's so important."

Sam took a deep breath, trying to rein in his scattershot emotions. "You both drilled into me that everyone has to pull their own weight on a hunt, because when they don't, people get killed. You can't have liabilities. Now, after– after everything…" he stumbled past the idea, "…I'm not as strong or fast as I was before. At a guess, I'd say I'm probably back where I was at 15. Which doesn't mean anything, I mean, if I could fight _then_ , I could fight _now_. I'd need to practice, but I could compensate."

He frowned, realizing he was straying off-message. "But as an omega, you won't let me fight or train. Without training, I can't get back the muscles and skill that I've lost. And without them, I'm useless in a fight. I can't protect myself or anyone else anymore." He didn't add what he was thinking – _not like it did much good anyway_. He was pretty sure it was self-evident.

Dean scoffed loudly. "Like you're not just gonna sneak around and practice on your own anyway, just like the other day."

Sam glared at Dean. "Am I? Make up your mind, Dean, you were the one swearing my omega 'biology' wouldn't allow that." He felt a flare of vengeful glee when Dean broke the staring contest and looked away. " Besides, I saw the ' _renovations_ ' you made around here. Lots of hooks, lots of pillows – it's pretty clear you're planning on keeping me on leash and key."

Dean tapped his fingers agitatedly against the table, but said nothing.

"So, I'm not allowed on the hunt. So what can I do so I'm not a liability?" Sam returned his gaze to his father, hoping the pheromones he'd unleashed before the meeting started would cover his increasing discomfort. He wanted his father to listen to his words, not his scent.

"I can still do research, in a very limited fashion." Sam ticked the options off on his fingers. "I can look up information in books we already have, that's definitely got some use. But I can't interview anyone unless it's another omega _and_ their alpha gives me – sorry, _you_ – permission. I can call hunters for advice, but most are so prejudiced against omegas they won't talk to me if I'm doing anything more than taking a message for you. In most states, I can't use the library unattended so you can go do interviews – and the books I'd be allowed to access wouldn't be of much use to you. So nine times out of ten, in order for me to get anything done, one of you will literally have to be holding my leash, which makes me at best redundant and at worst an outright impediment to any kind of efficiency."

He rubbed his hand across his forehead, trying to stave off the headache he felt coming. "If something comes up while we're out and about, you can't leave me alone to go chasing off after it. I can't even go back to the hotel on my own and wait for you. Hell, I can't–" he was proud that his voice only cracked a little– "I can't even walk into a gas station anymore to buy snacks or get directions. Which leaves, what? Cleaning the weapons? Picking up your dirty socks?"

He shrugged. "I'm deadweight."

_Shoulders back, spine up, head up_ , Sam reminded himself. _Act like you have every right to be talking to an Alpha, because you do, and fuck you, parasite, for making me feel otherwise._

"No, worse than deadweight, I'm an active danger to you both." He didn't have to mask his animosity at that fact. "I make us stand out, just because of what they – what I…" _Don't go there,_ he thought desperately, feeling hysteria try to bubble up if he thought too long about it. _Stay on message. I promise you, you can freak out later._

He started again. "You can't fly under the radar with me. When I say or do the wrong thing – and I'm gonna, I don't want to but you _know_ I will – you'll have the authorities on your backs immediately. Cops are always twice as rabid when there's an omega involved, and we all know why. Best case scenario, they offer to let you go in exchange for a turn or two with me and their knots, and they actually follow through on it. Worst case scenario, they arrest you on bullshit charges, take me away, knot me anyway, and I can't do a damn thing to help you."

Dean snorted disapprovingly. "Not every cop's a rapist, Sam." And then a look of horror crossed his face and Sam knew exactly what he was remembering, as he stutteringly backpedaled, "That's not– I meant–"

Sam shot him a dry _fuck you_ face. The tang of regret burst into the air, cutting through the swamp of pheromones that was building in the kitchen. "I'm gonna consider that subject dropped, okay? Okay." He stared down at the table, trying to keep his heartbeat and breathing from racing.

"Dad, you dedicated your life to the hunt, to finding what killed mom and killing it. You dedicated _our_ lives to it." Sam kept his hands firmly out of sight, where neither alpha could him digging his nails into his palms with anxiety. "It's always been more important than our childhood, and certainly more important than our future. So now that I'm an o-omega, it's got to be more important than what happens to me."

His throat caught in his mouth. "Let's be real, if I were just some random omega you'd rescued, you wouldn't have thought twice about leaving me behind for my own good… I'd probably still be back at that omega clinic. And if any random omega asked you to take them with you, you'd be saying everything I just said."

"But you're not some random omega," Dean leaned forward, placing his hand comfortingly on Sam's forearm. "You're _family_. This ain't gonna change that."

"Too late." Sam choked off a laugh, pulling his arm free and wrapping it protectively around himself. "Genetically, something already did. Turning O strips out the familial gene markers." He tried to ignore the distress that flooded through him when he spoke that hateful truth aloud. "Remember the whole 'It's not incest with an omega?' education campaign we had to sit through in sex-ed, the 'universal omega brotherhood' and all that bullshit? _AO means A-OK_? On a genetic level, we're strangers now."

John's hand slapped against the table, drawing both their attention as his bass voice rang out. "Family runs a lot deeper than DNA, Sam. You may not be my alpha son any longer, but you'll _always_ be my son."

"No," Sam said. "I _won't_. And that's the other reason why I want to go to an O clinic." He fixated his gaze on a crumb of eggs left on the table. If he had to look at Dean, or his dad, he didn't know if he could say the next part.

"You may think I'll always be your son, but if everything they say about omegas is right, sooner or later I won't be _me_ anymore. I'll be a pathetic shell of the 'me' I used to be." _Don't cry, shoulders back, head up, dammit–_ "I'll stop being someone you can respect and start being a burden. I don't want to still be here when that happens."

He barreled forward. "I don't want you to be the ones who finally take being _Sam_ away from me. I don't want to live every day as your pet, slave, or possession. I don't want to sit at your feet and beg for scraps, or worse." _A knot._ "I can't even wear that collar you gave me without having a panic attack. But that's the way I'm supposed to _live_ now, and it's going to destroy me. If someone's got to brainwash me into becoming that – and that's what it's going to take – then let it be someone I don't know. Let it be someone I can hate, because I will. _I will hate them_."

Sam sat back, energy spent, collapsing in on himself. "I don't want to hate you," he said quietly.

He took another deep breath and continued. "So give me a few weeks where I'm still Sam, where I can still drive and fight and argue and _live_ , then take me to a rehab center. Let _them_ be the ones who make me over into someone else. Be my father and my brother, not my executioners." He looked down, trying to fuel more anger to stave off the tears. "Let some stranger pull the trigger, not you."

He dug his nails deeper into his palm, feeling the bumpy ridges of the scars, letting the pain center him. "I did a lot of research, and California's the best state, especially if you pick a place near Los Angeles or San Francisco. They've got the smallest number of lawsuits against them by state, and better protection for omegas, a lot better than anywhere in the Midwest for sure. Plus, the state's got the fairest laws about omega reclamation anywhere in the U.S., so I'd probably be safe from… you know."

"You can't seriously believe that one of those places is better than us, Sammy," Dean chided him across the table. "C'mon, a clinic? Really? You know the kind of stuff they do to omegas in places like that, right?" He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I mean, look, if this is about the sandwich stuff from yesterday, I know I was being a bit of a dick, but don't you think this is an overreaction?" His voice was strained, the frustration on his face belying the attempt at lightening the mood.

"It's not just about the sandwich, Dean, or the shakes. I mean, it _is_ , but they're all just a symptom. I can't _be_ an omega, and you can't not _treat_ me like one." The words poured forth quietly but intensely. "I – me, _Sam_ – can't wear that collar, or those stupid fucking pants. I _can't_. I can't spend the rest of my life sitting at someone's feet, waiting for permission to talk or take a piss."

Was he repeating himself? Probably. He didn't know.

"The way you want me to behave isn't some pampered life of leisure. It's _hell_. It's like being a dog, except worse, because at least some of the time, dogs get to run around off the leash. It's never getting to make a decision for yourself." His voice cracked. "It's being trapped for hours on end, sometimes days, not knowing whether the knock on the door is friend or foe and being afraid to answer it, wondering what's going to happen to you the day it's someone knocking with their hat in hand to say that you and Dad aren't coming back ever. I spent the first ten years of my life stuck in hotel rooms like that. That can't be how I spend the rest of it. It – it'd kill me."

The minute he brought up his upbringing, Sam knew he'd made a misstep.

Dean's mood instantaneously flipped from hurt and worried to angry. "Our childhood was that bad, was it?" he asked lowly. "So bad you'd rather be turned over to some stranger so they can change your name to Samantha? End up with your nuts cut off and a boob job? _Really?_ "

Sam stared woodenly at the wall, waiting for Dean to finish ranting, but the alpha was just getting started.

"Hell, If I'd known you were just gonna ask to commit suicide like that, I wouldn't have caused such a scene at the clinic!" Dean growled. "We could have left you right in fucking Hibbing! I thought we were doing the right thing, taking _care_ of you, but apparently, we're not even family. Tell me, Dad, why the _fuck_ did we even bother wasting our time coming all the way to Bobby's?"

John sighed, heavily. "You done, Dean?"

"Oh yeah," Dean snarled, "I'm fuckin' _done_ all right." He stood up from the table, slamming his chair backwards in the process. "Fuck this conversation if you're even considering this, Dad. And _fuck you_ , too, Sam. I did the best I goddamn could." He stalked furiously out of the room.

* * *

The silence that followed was excruciating. Neither John or Sam seemed to want to look at each other, which suited Sam fine. He took the quiet minutes to calm down, willing his tears back into their ducts and trying to remember the point of it all. _Freedom. Autonomy. Choices._

It didn't help that someplace in the middle of the conversation, he'd started viewing his argument less as a means to manipulate his father into letting him keep hunting and more as an actual, viable option. He could break out of any omega clinic, he was sure of it. And from there it would be a matter of getting to Palo Alto. It'd be hard, but if he was smart and used all the survival tactics his father had drilled into him, he _might_ make it. And if he got caught… at least he'd know he'd tried.

On the other hand, without a long-term plan, all he'd be gaining was a temporary reprieve. He might be able to fake it in front of betas, wear a hoodie to cover the holes in his ears, make sure his back was covered, and douse himself in cologne to overwhelm their weaker senses of smell. Like _that_ wouldn't be suspicious-looking. And the first alpha who got within range of him, or fuck, just within range of where he'd recently been, or anything he owned, or where he had been sitting, and the jig would be up. He'd be right back where he started with or worse. Unless he could talk his Dad into choosing the Palo Alto clinic, getting to Stanford would be incredibly risky. Maybe if he hotwired a car, drove only at night and never got out of the car.

But then again, even if he got to Stanford unmolested – would they still let him attend? He had no idea if the school even knew he'd been turned, or whether they would let him keep his scholarship when they found out he had. He'd been smart enough to get a full ride, that had to be worth _something_ , even as an omega. Maybe if he found some progressive alpha professor who agreed to sponsor him in exchange for a regular hole for his knot _(if he could even think about sex without his skin crawling)_ …

But the _chance_ of freedom made it almost worth trying. Ninety-eight percent chance of failure still meant a two percent chance of success, right? And Winchesters were good at beating the odds.

Four days ago, all Sam had wanted was a safe, normal life. Now he didn't know what he wanted, not really. He only knew for sure what he _didn't_ want.

Stanford was what he _should_ want, and he did, but… it was all so tangled up inside. The clawing need of too many alphas in too small a space had been his whole existence since he presented, and now it was gone. Not the need to prove himself or the need to feel like he was valued or listened to, all that was still there. Same with the need to feel safe, to not spend every moment of his life feeling like it was about to be ripped away from him – if anything, that need was ten times worse now, the fear no longer a possibility but a certainty.

But in the wake of everything that had _(don't think about it)_ happened, he just really wanted his family. He wanted his father, his alpha, to somehow be able to make it all better. Knowing something was a lie didn't keep you from wanting it anyway.

At least one thing was undeniable, though. Regardless of what happened next, his plan _had_ worked. Even if Dean had stormed out, John was here, and he was listening – _really_ listening – to Sam.

He took a deep breath and dipped his head down respectfully, although he still made a point of keeping his shoulders up and squared. "I'm sorry. I wasn't actively trying to antagonize Dean."

John tilted his chin up, frowning, as he considered Sam's words. "But you knew your proposal was going to." His nostrils flared as he breathed in Sam's scent, trying to read him.

Sam nodded slightly, trying to keep his poker face steady. "You always taught us that our personal feelings about a decision didn't matter if it was the right call for the situation."

His father sighed. "And yet you led Dean to believe that you would actually stay at the rehab center, when we both know you would try to escape the first minute you could."

_Busted._

Sam's frown deepened into a scowl. "So it's _my_ fault Dean couldn't figure that out? It obviously didn't take you long."

"Dean's a much younger alpha than me," John said measuredly. "He's going to be more emotional and less rational when the pack is challenged. You _know_ that."

Sam shrugged. "So? Freshly turned omegas are supposed to be more emotional and less rational, too. Why is it okay for him to be like that and not me?"

His father tipped his head back and took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. "I didn't say it was. But it brings me back to my real question: Do you _really_ think this is the right call? Or are you just trying to maneuver yourself into a situation where you can ignore what's happened to you?"

Sam stiffened in frustration, flattening his hands on the table to keep from fidgeting with them. "Why do those things have to be exclusive, Dad? Can't it be good for the family to cut out the deadweight and good for me to at least feel like I went down fighting?"

"Is that what you want?" John retorted, refusing to rise to the bait.

Sam stared evenly back at him. "What I want doesn't matter."

John cocked his head. "You're wrong, Sam."

"Now who's not telling the truth?" He shoved away from the table, slamming backwards into his chair. "If what _I_ wanted mattered, I wouldn't have had to steal a pair of pants from Dean to avoid smelling like a whorehouse. I wouldn't have come downstairs this morning to find out that you'd slapped hooks and pillows all over the house without even _talking_ to me. I wouldn't have come in here and found a pillow where my fucking chair should be."

His hands trembled, but it was anger, not fear. Anger was good. Anger meant the parasite wasn't in control.

"You told me we'd decide as a _family_ what happened next, dad, but that was a fucking joke, wasn't it? You and Dean already decided what comes next. You went behind my back, checked out the laptop history, decided what I was going to say and made up your mind before I ever opened my mouth." He couldn't keep his resentment from souring his tone. "You didn't want my opinion. You just wanted me to agree to kneel at your feet like a good bitch and forget about wanting anything besides a knot."

Sam stood up abruptly and strode to the sink, the need to escape the burgeoning scent of displeased alpha beginning to overwhelm him. "And the worst thing is, until I saw the hooks, I actually was stupid enough to believe you. But those pants shoulda been my first clue, huh?"

A bitter laugh choked out of him as he closed the drain and flipped the tap. _Doing the dishes like a good bitch_ , his brain supplied, but it was something to do. Something to focus on other than the silent figure of his father behind him, still listening.

"Why _wouldn't_ I prefer the rehab center? What do I have to lose? At least they're honest. They don't pretend to give a damn about the person whose life they're destroying!" The soapy water sloshed over his knuckles. "Do you remember the last time we stayed at Pastor Jim's? I couldn't sleep, got up in the middle of the night to get some water, but you and him were up drinking in the kitchen. I can still remember that litany of complaints you reeled off. _'Sam's stubborn. Won't back down. Won't shut up and do what he's told. Has to question everything. Has to argue with a command if he doesn't agree with it. Kid'll make a damn fine hunter someday if I don't kill him first.'_ "

His hands stilled in the water. "You never wanted to hear what I had to say before, but as an alpha, I could at least get some kind of grudging respect from you. I could respect myself. You think you're still gonna respect me when I'm kneeling ass-up on command like a trained dog? Harsh reality: you won't. But it's okay, because I won't be able to respect myself very much either. You want me on collars and leashes and pillows? You're not going to get that without destroying who I am."

Behind him, he could hear John shift in his chair, and a shiver of _appease-pacify-surrender_ flashed through him. He suppressed the emotions angrily, hating how it took almost everything he had to keep his back turned to his father. "So tell me, why should it matter whether I'm still with my family once I stop being a real person?"

He picked up a plate and scrubbed at it robotically for a few seconds, then stopped and sighed. What was the point?

"I wanted you to actually listen to me." Sam shrugged. "I wanted you to think about what was best for _me_ , _Sam_ , not the omega you just got stuck with." He placed the plate into the drying rack and picked up an egg-encrusted fork. "So yeah, I did want to shock you. But it wasn't a lie."

He let the fork in his hand fall into the water, watched it sink to the bottom. "You saw the stuff I researched. You know what I'm up against. If I thought there was a better option, I'd take it."

Sam stared down at the dishes, not wanting to see the expression on John's face. "It's not like I think it's a good option." His voice broke. "There _aren't_ any good options. It's just – when it gets bad at the clinic, I can always try to escape. You wouldn't be legally liable if I got caught."

He flipped the tap off and sat back down at the table despondently. "If I stay here, there's no way out when it gets bad, not without hurting you and Dean – a fine at the best, a felony warrant at the worst." He buried his head in his hands, not caring that they were still damp. "And it's going to get bad. It's – the collar, I can't – you made me wear it and it was just like I was back there, and I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think–"

He took in a stuttering breath, held it, exhaled, wrapping his arms across his middle. "I _have_ to fight. I can't– I tried – I fought so _hard_ , but then… then they–" he tried to suppress the sob that was threatening to burst forth. Failed. "I couldn't fight, I couldn't do anything to stop it from happening… that can't be how it ends. I can't let them win, I have to fight. I _have_ to, I have to–"

The long pause that followed was broken by the sound of John chair sliding his chair around the table until he was close enough to put his arm around Sam's shoulders.

"Sometimes terrible things happen, and it's not your fault, and all the fighting in the world can't stop them." John's voice was gentler than Sam could remember hearing in years. "Maybe… maybe it's worth waiting to see what your world would be like if you stopped fighting. Maybe the way to beat them is to find a way to be happy despite what they did."

"Happy?" Sam barked out a harsh laugh. "Do you think _you'd_ be happy sitting on a pillow with a chain around your neck?"

John looked down solemnly at him. "No, Sam, I wouldn't. But I'm not an omega. And you are, now. All the books, the experts I've met – everything says it's different for omegas, and that it gets easier once the change is complete. Don't you think maybe it's worth finding out if that's true _before_ you ask us to disown you?"

Sam tried to shrug John's arm off his shoulders unsuccessfully, then settled for narrowing his eyes and scowling. "Any of those books actually written by omegas?"

John said nothing.

"Yeah," Sam said bitterly. "I didn't think so."

His father's alpha scent rolled over him, no longer angry… just sad. "It's not a bad plan, Sam, but what you're asking of me, I just can't do. You're asking me to abandon my child into a system that I _know_ will hurt him, to avoid the chance that I _might_ hurt him, and I can't do that." He sighed. "Whether it's the best course of action or not is irrelevant – I can't _do_ that. No father could. So no, I'm _not_ going to just drop you off at a clinic and hope for the best. That's off the table. You're asking the impossible."

John's arms enveloped the omega in a hug. With the changes to his body, Sam felt small and young in his arms. The last time he'd felt this way was before he'd presented… back when he'd still believed there was nothing that his father couldn't fix.

"I'm sorry, kiddo," John whispered. "I can't imagine how hard this is for you. But in that barn, I thought…" He pulled Sam in, tucking his head under his chin so his nose was pressed against him. "I can't lose you. I _won't._ "

It was impossible for Sam to avoid breathing in John's pheromones, impossible to keep his muscles from beginning to relax under the influence of _safe-alpha-warm-protected_.

"You're my son, and being an omega isn't going to change that, ever." John brushed his hair soothingly. "I can't abandon you someplace and never know what happens or whether you're okay." His voice sharpened. "So this is my decision: You'll stay here with us, and in a month, you _will_ take and pass the O test. No matter how hard it gets, Dean and I will be here to help you. _I'll_ help you."

Sam opened his mouth to protest. _How can you help me, Dad? You can't even stand to look at me. You send Dean up with food and bags and orders but this is the longest you've stayed in the same room with me since–_

Before he could speak, his father silenced him with a glance. "No, Sam. That decision is final, non-negotiable. _However_ … in a week or so, once your physiology has stabilized, _if_ you work hard on the skills you'll need as an omega, I'll consider letting you restart your firearms and endurance training. Dependent upon your progress towards passing the tests, of course."

It wasn't a victory. But it wasn't entirely defeat, either.

Sam sagged into his father's embrace. Adrenaline gone, the morning's sleepless hours caught up to him all at once. He let John slide him off the chair until he was kneeling on the floor, ignoring his hindbrain even as it screamed at him to stand up. For the first time in days, he felt safe.

It was a lie. But he needed the lie, if only for a little while.

"You can do this." John rubbed Sam's shoulder consolingly. "And I know you don't believe it, but I think you'll still be _Sam_ at the end of it."

It was a lie, but it was a nice lie. Sam let himself be soothed by it.

"I'll worry about what happens next _after_ you pass your test," John said softly. "No sense making decisions on that now. There are options, you know, whether it means you stay with us, or with Bobby, or someone else entirely – Pastor Jim, maybe. A lot of factors could change before then. But I promise you, I _will_ find the best solution I can, for all of us."

Sam leaned his head against his father's thigh, feeling like a little kid again, hating the automatic feeling of security that rose up.

He was just so tired. Maybe, for a little while, it was okay to rest.

* * *

"What the hell is this, Bobby?!"

The beta hunter looked up from his desk and sighed as Dean stalked into the study waving a long, curved stone knife. He'd retreated there after breakfast – one look at Sam had told him which way the wind was blowing, and he figured if there was one thing the kid could use, it was one less person invading his privacy. Besides, the postman had brought three boxes from Tony Gerhardt's widow the other day, and even though her late husband hadn't been the most distinguished hunter, you never knew what he might have come across and stashed away. Case in point, the journal he'd been thumbing through. Seventy-five percent ghosts and minor hunts, but he'd just run across an entry on an Argentinian variant of the chupacabra that had wound up preying on a petting zoo in Arkansas.

Bobby cocked his head at the knife in Dean's hand and squinted. "Sumerian ritual dagger. Allegedly for slaying asags, but that's a crock a' shit." He scowled. "Any idjit knows asag skin would just snap that blade in two. Ya need something heavy, like a mace or a hammer, to do the job properly. But, I figure the runes might still be useful to know, assuming they're accurate, so it's just been laying around until I get a chance to check it."

"That's not –" Dean huffed. He did, however, stop waving the knife around quite so much.

"I _meant_ , why the hell was this on a shelf where Sam could have run across it?" Dean flashed the blade at Bobby. "It was just sitting out in _plain sight_ on the top of one of the living room bookcases!"

The older hunter shot Dean a pointed look and held out his hand. "Gimme that." Then he opened his bottom right desk drawer, dropped the dagger into it, and locked it away. "There, problem solved. Calm yer britches."

The young alpha dropped heavily into the chair across from him, a sulky frown on his face. "You promised to make this place Sam-proof, Bobby. After that morning in the bathroom…"

"I know. I'm gonna have nightmares about that too." Bobby pushed Gerhardt's papers to one side so he could lean on the desk. "I picked up every gun and knife I had lying around that I thought Sam might know about, Dean, but this is a hunter's house. I want Sam to get better as much as you do, but there ain't no way in hell I can make it entirely 'Sam-proof.' And frankly, I wouldn't even if I could – ain't safe and ya know it, _especially_ not with a freshly turned omega on the property."

He rolled his eyes at Dean's growl and continued, "If I locked up everything, I'd be leavin' us wide open for the next thing with a grudge that comes on through – at least a few of which might be comin' from Hibbing. On top of which, yer brother is damn smart and resourceful. If he honest-t'-god sets his mind to it, it won't matter how many precautions you and I take."

Bobby leaned back and grabbed his coffee cup, then made a face when he realized it was empty. "Way I see it, _yer_ job is to keep him from setting his mind to it. And I am frankly a little unsure how stomping in here like a damn fool is part of that job." He set the cup down on a pile of receipts for the garage. "Now what's _really_ got you smelling like someone pissed in yer Wheaties?"

Dean summarized the morning, punctuating his complaints with a lot of swearing, pacing and angry gesticulation. It was hard for Bobby not to laugh at certain points, but he must have succeeded at keeping his face and scent composed enough for Dean not to notice.

When Dean finally ran out of steam, Bobby cocked his head to one side and thought for a moment. "Huh, okay," he said.

Dean rolled his eyes. "'Huh, okay'?! _That's_ your take-away? You gotta be kidding me! There is _no_ part of that idiocy that qualifies as okay."

"Don't be dense, Dean." Bobby leaned backwards in his chair, hands behind his head, and rested his feet on the desk. "Kid manages to get you and yer dad outta the house so he can meet you on his terms, clothing and chair and all, and then suggests the one thing guaranteed to get you to pay attention to him?" He snorted. "Are you _seriously_ tellin' me you're dumb enough not to recognize that you got played?"

Dean opened his mouth to retort, then paused.

And looked thoughtful.

And then furious.

He stood up with a growl, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. "That little _fucker_! I'm gonna–"

"–shut up and do nothing," Bobby interjected sharply. "In fact, you're gonna sit yer damn ass back down and help me go through these boxes until you calm the fuck down, while we talk about things like adults."

After a momentary stare-off, Dean complied, grumbling as he pulled one of the unopened boxes over between his feet.

Bobby handed Dean the box-cutter. "Look, Dean, Sam's lost just about everything a man can lose – pride, safety, plans for the future, even his own body. And even so, he managed to find a way around all of you, using yer own alpha posturing to defeat all of y' clever precautions and figure out a way to get himself heard!"

The younger hunter slashed through the packing tape viciously. "Yeah, well, I won't be making that mistake again."

Bobby waggled a finger at him. "You should be _glad_ he's still got enough of a spark to fight. If you don't want that boy to just give up on life, he _needs_ a win now and then to keep him going." _Where had he put that damn journal? Oh, that's right, under that stack of papers–_

"I can't _do_ that, Bobby." Dean opened the box and pulled out a stack of folders overflowing with paper. "We've gotta protect him." He flipped through the papers, then dropped them back into the box with a sigh. "Doesn't matter if he needs a win, he's an omega and he's gotta start acting like it, or else something terrible could happen–" The alpha folded his arms against the desk and rested his head on them with a groan.

Bobby reached out and patted his shoulder. "Hate ta break it to ya, kid, but something terrible already did."


	20. Interludes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More interludes: Pastor Murphy, the Benders, and Sheriff Mills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may get another section or two added to it down the road, but I'd rather get these up and let you know if it gets updated as we go.

_ Blue Earth _

Pastor Jim Murphy set the phone down, his heart considerably lighter than it had been five minutes prior.

Had he really thought Steve and his crew were–?

But no, they'd been clear across the country on a hunt for the past week. Reggie had even obliquely hinted that he and his boys would be willing to help John when he went to get his due – or at least grudgingly offering to make sure he and the boys were away on business when John came to town, once Jim had pointed out that their interference would be tantamount to starting a war within their hometown.

Not that John would need the help, most likely. But if he did, it would be best to come from outside.

* * *

_Hibbing_

"Fix your shirt and zip up that fly. Jesus Christ, it's embarrassing just looking at you." Hank rubbed his palm across his forehead in exasperation. 2:15 in the god-damn afternoon and all he wanted to do was clock out, and yet here he was, dealing with idiots. Even worse, the idiots were his cousins – blood relations – so he couldn't just tell the deputy to kick them out.

Jared had the decency to look a little ashamed as he shoved his shirttail back through the zipper and closed the gap. Lee, on the other hand, just dropped down into the second chair and sat there all but airing out his knot with his jean-clad legs sprawled far apart.

"Stopped by the stocks to say hi to Allie, huh?" He held up a hand when Lee opened his mouth. "That was a rhetorical question. You two smell like a Bangkok whorehouse." He laughed, and folded his hands over his stomach. "But you aren't here to waste my time talking about your knots, and even if you are, I don't want to hear it. So, what's up, your daddy send you?"

"Nossir," Lee spoke up. "We're here on our own, although we also are here-"

Jared cut in loudly. "We wanta know when we're gonna head out after that O!"

"Is that so?" Hank asked idly.

Jared frowned. "You said wait, so we waited. Well, we been waiting days now! We're done waiting!" He leaned forward. "If we don't move fast, they're gonna be too far gone t' track!"

The sheriff smiled indulgently as he leaned back at his desk. "Now, now, like I said to his daddy, we're a _law-abidin'_ community. Come a month, we'll have that boy here completely legal and above-board, and all the red tape in the world to back us up. This town's got rights as the alphas of origination – ain't no way that kid's gonna let anyone near his ass after the way we broke it in, and his father an' brother sure look like the overprotective types who couldn't possibly bring themselves to fuck their baby boy. That means 30 days from now, he's ours for the taking. We've just gotta wait out the claiming period, and then swoop in and pluck him."

"Fat lotta good that'll do if we can't find him," Lee muttered.

Hank rolled his eyes. "Are you sure your momma wasn't screwing the mailman on the side, Lee, or did you just get all the stupid genes in the family? I guarantee, first thing little Sammy's daddy did was take his new little omega to a clinic, and there ain't a single one in this state or the ones nearby that don't chip new Os. So there's only two options: are they law-abiding citizens, or ain't they? If they _do_ register him, he'll show up in the lists, so we know where they are. And if they _don't_ register him, he'll show up on the monitors when his chip gets activated."

"Huh," Jared said.

Sheriff Bender sighed mightily. "That's right. So – and this is an order – I need you two to stop wasting my time, go back home and let me handle it the way the good taxpaying citizens of this town pay me to, because _I'm the goddamn sheriff._ " He reached down to one of the stacks of papers on his desk, grabbed something off the top of it and then held it out to them. "But just in case either of you numbknots get another brilliant idea about how I should be doing my job, I want you to take this."

Lee looked dubiously at the stony paperweight in the sheriff's hand before picking it up. He bounced it in his hand once or twice, then tossed it to Jared, who looked up in confusion. "…It's just a rock."

"That's right." The Sheriff smiled darkly. "And the next time either you decide you know more'n me, I want you to _hit yourselves in the fuckin' head with it_ until the urge passes. And that's a fuckin' order."

He watched the pair slink out of his office, tails between their legs. The gall of them, thinking he didn't know what he was doing. Of course he had a plan. He _always_ had a plan. It had felt good, yelling at the two. Got his inner alpha all riled up.

Maybe he'd go give Allie a visit himself at lunchtime.

* * *

_Sioux Falls_

Jody fidgeted with the calendar on her desk, thinking about the shell-shocked man she'd met two days prior. _John Winchester._ Cases like his just ripped her up; in a better world, someone would have outlawed the practice of bitching already. Then again, in a better world, nature wouldn't have created omegas in the first place, or at least the cruel biological quirk that left them entirely dependent on alphas.

At least he'd seemed like one of the kinder alphas she'd run across – a little too stubborn in places, but determined to do the right thing. Jody sent up a little silent prayer that his son's transition would be easy on the family.

She tapped her finger absently on the manila folder with the registration paperwork she'd pulled for him, then slid it into her inbox where she could find it again.

He hadn't contacted her yet about it. In all likelihood, it had completely slipped his mind in the day's chaos. He'd never told her where he was staying, so she couldn't exactly drop it off for him, but it wasn't urgent yet, anyway. If he missed the deadline, he'd be facing a fine, but it wouldn't be the end of the world.

She programmed a reminder into her phone to check in with him at the end of the week. She could offer to bring it by then, maybe even bring over a casserole or something else homecooked. A little comfort food could do wonders to lift the spirits.

Besides, the guy had looked like he could use all the friends he could get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene of the next chapter is up on the SPNKink_meme, for the impatient! More to come.


	21. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of John, Dean and Sam's conversation. Things begin to change, but does anyone really feel good about it?

Dean let Bobby keep him occupied until lunch, sorting through Gerhardt's effects and cataloging anything that might be useful. He knew the old man was distracting him, but he was also kind of grateful for the distraction. It was easier to stay in the study and read through boring journal entries that ran more like travelogues about boring hunts than think about ticking clocks and deadlines and _Sam_.

He knew Bobby was right, his brother needed him, but every time he thought about seeing or talking to Sam, he'd remember how the morning had gone and what Sam had said and start fuming again. Sooner or later, the beta would notice and say something sarcastic and distracting, and Dean would calm down. And then half an hour later, the cycle would repeat.

He didn't mean to obsess over the fight. He just couldn't help it. Sam had wanted to leave him – leave _them_. And for what? Sure, maybe his half-cocked idea sounded good on paper, but if Sam had been awake at that clinic, if Sam had _heard_ the way they'd treated him like he was just some prize poodle, he'd understand why the idea was so idiotic. It didn't matter that Sam had undoubtedly been trying to reassert himself by intentionally pressing Dean's buttons, that he probably in fact hadn't intended anything of the sort. His ploy had worked far too well, and hours later, Dean's inner alpha was still snarling over it.

Until about 12:30 anyway, when the study door opened and a black cloud of grief and frustration billowed in around his father.

John stood in the doorway silently until Dean finally, reluctantly, met his gaze, not sure whether he wanted to hear what was coming.

"I made my decision," John said somberly, his voice laden with alpha control, just a shade below an all-out command. "Sam's staying with us and passing the tests here."

"Good," Dean spit out. "Like there was even any fuckin' chance in hell of–"

John held up his hand, stopping Dean mid-tirade with a sharp glance. "Sam's going to work on what he needs to about being omega from 7 am to 7 pm. If he's good, I'll give him downtime in the evening, but it'll be my call. We're starting with the pillows today, and taking it day-by-day from there. But…" he trailed off.

Dean instinctively knew he was going to hate what came next.

John sighed. "I want you to keep your distance this week while he's training, until he settles in and his alpha instincts finish fading." His stern tone made it clear there would be no negotiation on this. "Omegas need a clear chain of command, and I can't have another alpha contradicting my decisions or commands, or any repercussions Sam may earn for his actions. It's going to be hard enough for everyone as it is."

At John's pronouncement, Dean felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. The anger he'd been harboring at his brother dissipated as a wave of protectiveness rushed in, tinged with rumbles of something wild and dark that he suppressed before he could put a name to it. _Sam needed him, their omega needed him, HIS–_. He sucked in a breath to argue, glancing to Bobby for support, but the older hunter just stared at him and then cocked his head pointedly back at John.

And Dean looked his father, really studied him as he stood in the doorway – shoulders slightly slumped, shirt wrinkled, dark shadows under his eyes. There was none of the energy he'd had that dawn, just an overwhelming sense of sad, exhausted weariness. A memory rushed over him, positions reversed – _himself, years younger, just a cub, staring unseen from a doorway at his dad sitting at a table, hunched and broken, Sammy just a toddler asleep in his arms while John talked on the phone. "I can't, Jim, that thing could come back and god knows what it wants. Mary's gone, it took Mary, and I, I can't… they're my_ sons _, Jim, I–."_

Sam needed him, but so did John.

Dean nodded and swallowed down the argument that had been on his tongue, squashing it down into that same place with his dark irrational jealousy from a moment earlier. "Understood."

John straightened, his shoulder relaxing, "I trust you to use your days productively – I'm sure Bobby wouldn't mind if we helped earn our keep with the cars in the yard, and I expect you keep up your training. I won't be shadowing Sam every minute, so there'll be a lot of time when I can help out as well." He smiled, still a little wanly, but better than before, and Dean knew he'd made the right choice.

"You stormed off pretty angrily earlier." John looked at Dean assessingly. "Good to see you cooled back down." After a long moment, his gaze softened. "Sam's turning pheromones are hitting you pretty hard, aren't they?"

_Understatement of the year._ Dean scratched his neck uncomfortably, dropping his eyes down to stare at the desk. "Yeah, I guess."

"Tell ya what, kid," John said. "Why don't you take tonight off and head into town? Take the Impala and get yourself a little downtime, maybe see if that waitress at the bar you like is on shift. Bobby and I can keep things locked down around here tonight."

Yes, Dean thought, some space away from everything to clear his head – that's _exactly_ what he needed. Just a chance to get everything back in perspective. A small smile graced his lips as he thought about an evening with a little fresh air, a little drunken fun, and a hot little brunette beta. Just what the doctor ordered.

And if the reality of the evening was different… If he barely made it a mile past the salvage yard that evening before his alpha instincts screamed for him to turn the Impala around and park it... If, in fact, he sat for hours in the humid summer darkness, hands gripping the steering wheel as he stared back in the direction of the house, making sure no enemy could come near his pack unseen...

Well, only _he_ knew.

* * *

Sam wasn't sure what he'd expected when John promised to help him pass the test – more of his hands-off, here's-a-bag-of-supplies-and-some-vitamins kind of approach, most likely. But if their clash in the kitchen that morning had accomplished anything, it was getting his father to really _see_ him in a way he hadn't for years… not since he had presented as alpha, really.

The jury was still out on whether that was a good thing.

His father seeing him meant that they stayed in the kitchen – John in a chair, Sam collapsed on the pillow, his head on his father's knee as he clung to him like a raft in a flood – for a good half an hour. Or maybe it was longer? Time had started slipping away from him again. It was easy to just stop thinking as he knelt, to let his father pet his hair and tell him it was going to be okay somehow.

It wasn't the dispassionate grey haze from earlier; he didn't feel all calm and emotionless and rational. This was a comforting fuzzy fog wrapping his head and preventing that unpleasant reality from breaking through, a cloud of alpha pheromones that had started off firm, and sad, and frustrated, but slowly, gradually lightened into a feeling of warmth, protection and safety that suffused his skin and heart. It was some kind weird feedback loop, he thought distantly; the more he gave in to the cloud of _protected-safe-loved_ , the calmer he felt, and the calmer he felt, the more the cloud lightened.

The cloud made it easy to not think, so he just… didn't. When his father suggested they move to the living room, he followed. When his father fed him a sandwich, he ate it. When his father told him to stay seated on his pillow and wait for him to return, he waited. Just like an _omega_ was supposed to do.

It didn't hurt as long as he didn't think.

It wasn't like being a kid again. Sam's childhood was full of memories of sitting next to his father, but there was always something to do then – homework to be done, weapons to be cleaned, prayers and rituals to be memorized. With Dean… yes, he and his brother had spent many nights just sitting and watching TV as they waited for John to return. But nowhere in his memory had he and his father ever just sat like this, doing nothing but just… being together.

It felt good.

_Safe_.

Hibbing had taught Sam that "safe" was an illusion. Being an alpha didn't make you safe, and being around alphas _(he's a real looker, ain't he?)_ sure as hell didn't. But his body was still burning up resources he didn't have, forcing his physiology to change into something he didn't _want_ , and he was still so _tired_ –

It was nice in the fog. It felt easy to just shut off his brain and merely exist, just for a little while. And sure, some small part of him was crying out in anger at him for giving in (giving up?), but that voice was distant for the moment. Easy to drown out.

Maybe, he thought, maybe if _this_ was what being an omega was like, if he could just stay in the fog…

But of course, he couldn't. The fog ebbed and flowed with John. When the alpha was gone for too long, the angry little voice got louder. Comfort and safety soured to distress. It came to a head in the early evening, when voices called John into another room and he didn't come back. Left sitting on his own, it was harder to ignore the reality of what was happening, the reality of him perched on a fucking pillow like a pampered goddamn show dog that wasn't allowed on the couch while a conversation happened elsewhere in the house that involved everyone _but_ him.

Snippets of conversation floated into his periphery from down the hall where John had vanished. Happy voices, saying something about a bar and laughing and "don't wait up," making Sam realize how stilted and distressed everyone had been around him for days. Normal, everyday conversation between people who hadn't been– who could still–

The front door slammed, and a minute later the Impala rumbled to life and out of the yard.

_Dean._

Sam suddenly, desperately wanted Dean to come back, to laugh and make jokes and distract him from the way his life was changing. He wanted his big brother there to lie to him and tell him it would all be okay, even though they both knew it wouldn't.

But Dean wasn't here. Dean was _gone_ , and whose fault was that? He'd stormed off that morning because Sam had purposely antagonized him, and stayed away all day because Sam had made him angry, and now he had left, _again_ , because he didn't want to be around Sam.

Dean had gone away, and it was all _Sam's_ fault.

Dean had just wanted to protect him, and Sam had… had…

… _Jesus_ , what the ever-loving _fuck?!_

Sam shook his head like it could somehow dislodge the weird swell of _longing-anxiety-shame_ that had swept over him. What the hell was _wrong_ with him, getting all weepy just because he'd pissed off his brother? There was a point about a year after he'd presented when neither of them would talk to the other for two weeks straight. Dean had been being a dick, teasing Sam about getting his knot, and things had gradually escalated from dirty looks and ignoring each other into outright fistfights and stony, day-long silences. It had taken John handcuffing the two of them together – Sam's left wrist to Dean's right – and dropping them off ten miles from camp with orders to find their way back by sunset before they'd finally broken their feud and started talking.

So really, Dean being pissed at him for a few hours didn't even register on the scale of their childhood. There was no reason for Sam to have flipped out.

Which meant it wasn't Sam. It was the parasite and its "omega impulses."

_His_ fucking omega impulses.

Sam was up before he could think about that, off the pillow and standing as he tried not to hyperventilate. He leaned against John's chair, trying to catch his breath. This wasn't him. This couldn't be him. This couldn't _(we got here the start of one grade-A bitch!)_ , he didn't–

* * *

John had switched out his nose plugs, which was probably why he didn't register his son's distress before he entered the room, beer in one hand, O-shake in the other. He was barely two steps inside the doorway when the scent of anguished panic filtered through his nostrils. His heart clenched when it registered that Sam was standing by the chair, trembling slightly and staring at the wall with slightly unfocused eyes. The pillow had been kicked a few feet away – judging by Sam's demeanor, probably not intentionally.

John's expression softened. He dropped both drinks, forgotten, on the nearest flat surface and approached Sam, saying his name softly but firmly. Sam looked up at him, startled and teary-eyed, and John realized the boy was stressed enough that he hadn't even registered his approach.

He held out his arms without speaking, and Sam collapsed into them, burying his face in John's shoulder. It was strange, comforting Sam in his arms, his son and yet not his son, body and smell and face different, but yet still him. "You want to talk about it?"

Sam shook his head without lifting it off John's shoulder. He felt the omega's breath on his neck as he inhaled deeply and slumped closer, the tension beginning to leave him as John's alpha pheromones once again calmed him.

"You did fine, kid," he murmured, hugging him tightly. "More than enough for today. You hungry? No? Okay then, let's get you upstairs – you can read for a bit, or just go to sleep, that sound good? And tomorrow, we'll talk about what you want to work on next."

To John's surprise, Sam let him maneuver them upstairs without protest. He took the vitamins John gave him without argument, and quietly changed into a pair of his new boxers and a sleep shirt while John stripped the bed and made it up with the new omega-friendly sheets Sam hadn't yet taken out of the bag. No wonder the kid was so tired. The rougher cotton had to have been keeping him on edge even when the energy from turning had finally forced sleep upon him. He'd probably been tossing and turning all last night. Thank goodness his changes were almost finished – well, the initial physical ones, anyway. Sam's insides would be shifting and growing for months now, not to mention his brain chemistry.

How much would Sam's personality change, John wondered? A few days ago, hugging him like that would have been unthinkable to either of them, alpha hackles rising within a minute or two. One of the key facets of the alpha gene was the need to control your domain, and part of that, dysfunctional or not, was the need to protect your immediate space. Having another alpha inside your "territorial bubble," or whatever pop psychologists were calling it these days, was a constant irritation that quickly built to intolerable levels. It undoubtedly had to be one of the reasons omega pheromones evolved to be calming; omegas needed physical closeness from their alphas, so nature had ensured a way to counter that instinctual reaction.

Sam was an omega now, and the distance that had crept in and kept widening the gap between them was gone. Sitting with his son all afternoon had been remarkable, almost peaceful. It felt natural to hold his son, just the way he had when he was young, and it was clearly now natural to Sam to once again seek comfort and be held. According to the books, this was just the beginning stages of becoming an omega. As the changes progressed, those needs would only increase.

Was it selfish to think of taking Sam on the road with him and Dean when the change was complete? There wasn't much time for closeness on the road, not with lives at stake. Sam hadn't been wrong; as an omega, hunting would involve a lot of time locked up in hotel rooms on his own.

As the boys had grown up, John had never questioned his instincts in taking them on the road. The need to protect them and teach them to defend themselves had been stronger than any benefit they might gain from staying in one place long enough for whatever had killed Mary to come back for her sons. Sam had been planning on quitting hunting for Stanford… wouldn't John be giving him at least part of his dream if he "retired" Sam someplace like Jim's or Bobby's? It wouldn't be college, but…

But there went all his inner alpha instincts again, roaring against the idea of leaving him behind. He just couldn't.

"I can smell the smoke from you thinking all the way downstairs, John." Bobby popped his head up the stairs long enough to catch the alpha's eyes. "The kid's gonna sleep all night whether or not you're standing in the hall. That's biology. So take your own advice to Dean and come downstairs, have a beer," he clinked the bottles in his hand meaningfully, "and give yourself a little downtime before the next crisis hits."

John rubbed his eyes and nodded. No matter how restful the afternoon had been, Sam definitely wasn't the only one exhausted and wrung out by the day.

At least Dean was out having a good night tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of you readers are very concerned about Sam and his transition, and with good reason. And all I can say is... you're gonna have to trust me, here, because there's a _hell_ of a lot more that's yet to unfold.


	22. Mooning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Christ," Bobby scoffed. "Am I the only one who actually finished researching this thing?" He put the wrenches he was holding back into their places in the socket set and closed the box. "Your dad and Sam are mooning right now. Probably will for the rest of the week, too, like it or not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's been following this over on the [SPNKink_Meme](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/97375.html?thread=37793375#t37793375) as it gets posted... you may notice this chapter has a hella lot of revisions (although the plot points remain fundamentally unchanged). Some rough drafts are rougher than others, I suppose! I'll try to get the next chapter out faster, but if y'all want to send some voodoo-hoodoo magic my way for a new job with good health care benefits, it sure wouldn't hurt. :)

Sam woke up (for the first time) at 5:13 a.m. that morning. His heart was racing, and his stomach lurched, and the smell of the smoked meat and beer from his dreams making his head ache. _(Not real.)_ He focused on his breathing _(in through the nose-hold-out through the mouth)_ and counted it as a victory when the contents of his stomach remained where they were, even though his throat burned with bile.

Even though he was tired, elements of the dream haunted him every time he closed his eyes. Was it better than he could only remember bits and pieces of his attack? He didn't know.

Half an hour later, he sighed and gave up on sleep, the house silent around him as he slipped out of bed and walked downstairs. He took special care to skirt around Dean's open door as he evaded the creaky step.

He wasn't sure where he was going, had no purpose in mind. It just felt good to move around without anyone's eyes on him.

His father was asleep on the living room couch again. He was going to have a sore back if that kept up, but Sam figured he deserved it, what with a perfectly good bed going unused up in Sam's room. And okay, maybe they found his new omega-ness as disturbing as he did, but at the very least, John and Dean could have split that room and given Sam the single so everyone could have a bed.

It was painfully obvious that John had set up the sleeping arrangements – illogical as they were – on purpose, with alphas on guard between Sam and the door. It probably was just the kind of inborn instinct Sam would have felt himself a week ago with an unprotected, emotionally compromised omega in the house. It probably wasn't just to keep him from escaping. Probably.

Seeing the pillows on the living floor and knowing that he'd be sitting on them a few hours later brought a frown to his face. It hadn't been terrible. It hadn't even been as monotonous as he'd dreaded it would be. In fact, he'd been on stake-outs in far more odious conditions.

In its own way, though, the fact that it was bearable made it worse. It was harder to chafe against a yoke made of silk than of iron, harder to insist that it was unbearable and inhumane. Even though it was.

He quietly withdrew to the kitchen, looking around aimlessly. It was too early to eat anything – not that his stomach really had any interest in food, but there was a certain thrill in the rebellion itself. So long as he didn't think too much about how there had been absolutely no revolutionary elements in eating food on his own just a few days ago, anyway.

He settled for going through Bobby's stash of junk food, pocketing a bag of beef jerky and a couple of granola bars that wouldn't be missed. Things that wouldn't go bad, just in case…

Well, just in case.

Sam froze as a loud snort came from the living room – John was beginning to wake up. _Upstairs_ , his brain urged him. He scowled, hating the traitorous little instinct that wanted to scurry upstairs to make sure his alph- – his _father_ – wouldn't be displeased by seeing him up and about. The beef jerky in his pocket crinkled slightly, reminding him of a much better reason not to get caught.

A rumpled yellow rectangle caught his eye as he turned back towards the stairs – one of the many half-used-up notepads Bobby stubbornly kept lying around the house. He would scribble out his notes on a case longhand, then transcribe them later on and rip out the pages when he was done. Sam had mocked him more than once for using such old-fashioned, wasteful methods, but right then, he was grateful for the old man's Luddite tendencies.

Unlike the snacks, he didn't know why the notepad called to him. He didn't know why he felt the need to hide it away, either – unlike the snacks, there was nothing rebellious in a pad of paper. But John and Dean had always taught him to follow his instincts… so he did.

By the time John came upstairs ten minutes later to crack open Sam's door and order him to stay in bed for at least another two hours – _"and I do mean sleeping, Sam, not just lying there reading, you need more rest"_ – all evidence of his early morning wanderings was gone. The notepad was safely hidden underneath his bed, and the snacks were stashed in the middle drawer of his bureau, inside a box that had originally housed "slick pads" (which he'd then piled on top of the box to dissuade the curious).

Knowing that he'd gotten away with something made it easier to roll over and nod sleepily and pretend to comply with his father's orders.

He'd only intended to stay in bed just until he heard the rest of his family leave the house to go running – not for any particular reason, just for another petty thrill from trivial rebellion – but whether because of John's direct order or just his own still-altering genetics, he was already fast asleep again by then.

* * *

Bobby shook his head as John and Dean lapped the gate for a fifth time. Busy work, he thought – you didn't see _him_ out there running around in circles for no goddamn reason. But that was the difference between him and John. You could take the man out of the Marines, but you couldn't take the Marine out of the man.

John had woken Dean up at six to train. The two of them had made enough noise getting ready to rouse Bobby. The older hunter had glanced at the clock and decided to take his sweet time getting up. They were already outside by the time he'd staggered sleepily downstairs twenty minutes later. He poured himself a cup of coffee in his blessedly empty kitchen, then walked outside to enjoy the sunrise and morning paper from the comfort of his porch.

Ten laps later, the Winchesters staggered back to the house, tired but in good spirits. As they reached the porch, Dean put on a burst of speed and dashed up the stairs with a "Dibs on the shower!" A minute later, they could hear running water upstairs.

Bobby tilted his head at the swinging door Dean had just vanished through. "Looks like someone is doing better after his night out."

"For now." John glanced reflexively up at Sam's window. "I didn't smell any perfume or smoke on him when he got up this morning, so I'm pretty sure he skipped the bar, but at least he got out of the yard, even if it was just to the diner or someplace else in town. I think it's going to be easier on Dean if he doesn't have to see Sam struggle so hard in front of him all the time."

Bobby stared down into the black depths of his coffee, swirling it to make the sugar blend in more. "You sure about that? Dean's been keeping an eye on Sam for so long, he doesn't really know how not to."

_And now he won't ever have to._ Bobby's mind flashed guiltily to Stanford and his part in helping Sam with his application. John would have been so angry at what he would have seen as "abandoning" them. It all seemed even more petty in retrospect.

He took another sip. "Not that Sam was that much better. Surprised the kid's not downstairs already."

John shook his head. "If he had his way, he would be. He was already awake when I woke Dean, but I told him to stay upstairs until I said otherwise. I was hoping I might get him to rest a little bit more – god knows exactly how little sleep he's running on." He sat down on the step, facing into the yard, elbows resting on his knees.

"Kid's gonna burn himself out." Bobby turned his face into the warm morning breeze. "He aware what pushing himself like that is costing him?"

John's shoulders slumped a little. "He's got to be, not that he's acting like it. I can't figure out if he's doing it as some weird way of punishing himself, or just because he's feels like he's got to fight _something_ and it's the only thing he's got at the moment besides me."

The wood of the step creaked as John leaned back a little. "I know the change isn't supposed to have any long-term complications, but I can't help but wonder what kind of strain it's putting on his system to lose mass as fast as he has been." He sighed. "Then again…"

Bobby grimaced. "Then again, the more weight the idjit burns now, the more he's gonna resemble a born O, right? Which would make it a lot easier to fit in, in a crowd." The old hunter set his cup down and stretched, his bones aching a little in sympathy just thinking about Sam's reverse growing pains. "What's the plan for today – more pillow-sitting and brooding?"

John shrugged. "No, I want to dive right in and get started."

Bobby side-eyed him. "You sure about that? Seems to me–"

"Yeah, I'm sure," John cut him off sharply. "Best for him – best for all of us – if we keep moving forward as much as possible. Just gonna get harder, the more we put it off."

Bobby huffed. "I was just trying to point out that–"

"You and Dean both, Bobby, but I've made my mind on this," John said firmly. "I've got a schedule more or less figured out. After breakfast, I'm going to sit down with him and go over it all. We'll start with him practicing some of the basic positions he needs to learn – five minutes a pose should give him a bit of a physical workout, but without too much of a strain. Then around 10:30, we'll take a walk around the property, for exercise and to give him an idea of how close he needs to stay to me – just holding the leash, since Dean confirms he's not ready for the collar just yet." He sighed. "Then back to practicing the positions, the more, uh, awkward ones. He can do those up in his room – give him a little privacy. After lunch, we'll talk about how he's feeling and what changes he should be expecting. I, uh, don't expect that's gonna go so smoothly."

"Huh," Bobby scoffed, "That's the understatement of the year."

John smiled. "Yeah… honestly, I expect he's going to end up spending the rest of the day sulking on his pillow after that, but there won't be too much of the day left anyway. And, you know, sitting by his alpha's side is something he's going to have to be able to do anyway, so if he wants to take that option, I'm okay with it, as long as he gets some work done first."

The alpha scratched his head and shifted sideways on the step to look up at the porch. "I figure we'll try the whole collar thing again at the end of the day. Worst case scenario, if he has another panic attack, it'll tire him out that much harder for the night."

Bobby snorted. "Worst case scenario, it keeps him up with nightmares all night."

John rolled his eyes. "That's what I like about you, Bobby, your goddamn optimism." He glanced longingly at Bobby's cup. "Don't suppose–"

"Hah!" Bobby made sure to take a nice, loud slurp of the coffee before continuing. "You know where the pot is. Ain't nothing stopping ya from using your own damn feet to get some. I ain't yer maid."

"Yeah, yeah." John smiled. Then his eyes flickered upwards, toward Sam's window, and the smile slipped away.

Bobby felt the change in John's demeanor like a kick to his stomach. Cooking, cleaning, that was omega's work. He exhaled slowly, letting the discomfort settle over them. Then he said, "Y'know, it's been years since Karen–" _died_ , he wanted to say, _since I had to kill her–_ "well, since then. And yet it ain't been so long that I can't remember how lost I was afterwards. If it wasn't for hunting, I don't know how I would have kept on."

John looked down, grief-stricken. "Same here. Almost eighteen years later, and I still don't know some days."

Bobby felt a little guilty for evoking Mary's ghost, but in for a penny, in for a pound. "Don't ya think Sam–"

"He's an omega," John cut Bobby off sharply, a rumble of alpha dominance creeping in. "He's not hunting."

Bobby tilted his head and held up a hand to placate him. "I didn't say that, did I?" He sighed. "I'm saying he needs _something_ , a reason to keep getting up in the morning, just like we did."

"It's not going to be hunting," John repeated stonily, staring pointedly away from him.

"It's got to be something," Bobby pressed. The tick in John's told him he'd struck a nerve.

They sat in awkward silence, the morning's easy camaraderie gone. For the millionth and a half time, Bobby wished Karen was there with her easy grin and solid judgment. A born beta, she wouldn't have known anything more about omegas than he did, but she woulda – she would have known some way better to help, instead of fumbling around sticking fingers in old wounds.

After an awkward silence, John's head dropped down defeatedly, and he sighed. "I'd better get ready to start the day, anyway." He shifted, preparing to stand, and finally looked back at Bobby. "Do you have anything that could use Dean's assistance? I thought it might help take his mind off things–" off _Sam_ "–and it's a way we could pay you back for some of the help you've given us."

Bobby nodded. He'd been anticipating the question since the day before, more than enough time to think up some options. "I've got a few cars in the yard Dean can start stripping down. Good mindless work, and close to the house. And there's a dealer down in Omaha with a few busted Chevies I'm going to take off his hands cheap to rebuild." He drained his cup. "I was thinking in a week or so, Dean can tag along with me on that, make it an overnight if his instincts have calmed down enough to let him be that far away from his pack."

It had only been a few days since Sam was attacked, and both of the alphas' instincts were still on high alert. Add a batch of scared and hurting omega pheromones to the mix and it was a wonder Dean had ever made it into town last night. Heck, if Bobby hadn't triggered John's need to provide for his pack and then all but thrown him out, the man never would have gone out that first day. The trip would do Dean good and clear his head – not to mention giving Sam fewer spectators for practicing the worst aspects of his O-tests.

John nodded and looked away. "Thanks, Bobby. I appreciate that."

The sound of running water cut off inside the house. John cracked his neck to the left and then right, then stood up, rotating his shoulders as he worked the kinks out of them. "Well, that's my cue, unless he used up all the hot water."

Bobby stood as well. "I'll crack some eggs for breakfast. Send Dean down to help. I'll keep him company while you get Sam sorted out."

John smiled slightly, olive branch accepted.

The least you could do after bringing up a man's dead wife, Bobby figured, was make him breakfast.

* * *

Sam woke (for the second time) at 7:05 that morning, to the sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs and down the hall towards his door.

Well, _woke_ was possibly an understatement. It would be more accurate to say he started awake in a blind panic, heart pounding as he crab-scurried off the bed sideways on his hands and feet. He landed on the floor with a hard thump, then scuttled back into the corner, pulling his blankets down on top of him. _Alpha_ , he thought groggily, the scent of sweat and pheromones thick on his nose and tongue.

The footsteps slowed as they passed his door, then stopped and backtracked to stand in front of it. "You okay in there, Sammy?"

_Dean._

Sam flushed scarlet, the panic giving way to embarrassed humiliation at his overreaction. "'m _fine_ , Dean. Just tripped on the sheets while I was getting up. Go shower, man. You _stink_ – I can smell you from here."

He watched the shadows of Dean's feet under the door, shifting from side to side, and braced himself for some smartass comment about his gangly limbs or two left feet. But all Dean said was a soft, "Okay man, just… be more careful, all right?" before shuffling down the hall to the bathroom by Bobby's room.

_Huh_.

Dean's scent lingered in his wake, no longer terrifying but warm and comforting now that Sam knew whose it was. With that sense of calm came the realization that he was hiding in his blankets like a two-year-old who thought that if he couldn't see the monsters, they couldn't see him either.

Like an _omega._

With a muttered curse, he dumped the sheets off of himself and stood up. His stomach curled a little in disgust at his cowardice, but it was muted by the persisting sense of _safe/brother/alpha/love._ The tightness in his lungs loosened further.

He padded over to the door where the smell was stronger, resting his forehead against it and inhaling deeply, one hand on the knob. Then he turned it slowly, quietly, opening the door and leaning into Dean's scent to breathe it all in before it dissipated.

The hallway was empty, but there was a damp t-shirt on the ground. _Dean's_ shirt. He must have been stripping down as he ran, Sam thought, a holdover from cheap rental apartments where the hot water only ran in bursts of 15 minutes, the two of them racing and jockeying to see who could get into the shower first and Dad's insistence on five-minute military-style showers be damned. Dean had probably dropped it when he stopped to check on Sam.

He should put it back, Sam thought. Holding onto the shirt was a crutch, an artificial sense of security that he couldn't afford to begin to rely on — look how little good Dean's boxers _(the ones still stashed in the pocket of his borrowed jeans_ , Sam's mind reminded him helpfully) had done for him yesterday.

The shirt was dirty, and sweat-stained, and gross. It was filthy, and old, and itchy against his skin. And it had Cheap Trick on the cover, and he didn't even really like Cheap Trick.

The shirt smelled like Dean.

Sam sat back down on the bed, still clutching it, even as he argued with himself to let it go. He remembered the day Dean had pulled it out of the racks at Goodwill, not caring that it was remaindered because the graphic was crooked. He'd worn it out of the store, and once they were back in the Impala, Dad had even let Dean pull out their _Heaven Tonight_ cassette and play it without fast-forwarding past _Surrender_ the way they usually did – "Mommy" wasn't all right, Mommy was _never_ going to be all right, and none of them usually liked being reminded of that. But that day, for once, it was okay.

So… maybe Sam didn't entirely hate Cheap Trick.

Dean was still in the shower when Sam fell back asleep, the t-shirt safely stashed out of sight under the bed, next to the notebook.

* * *

Dean took his time in the shower, just to be on the safe side. He'd gone to sleep okay, but by the time he woke up he was inexplicably angry at Sammy again, so yeah, maybe he hadn't really cared at first whether running up the stairs would upset his brother. But he'd felt bad the moment the acrid scent of fear and anxiety had begun to curdle the air, too ashamed to even make a joke at his brother's expense the way he normally would.

Thirteen minutes later, when Dean finally wrapped a towel around his hips and headed back down the hall to his room, the t-shirt was gone, along with the sharp tang of distress he'd scented earlier. Through the barely-cracked-open door, he could see Sam curled up on the bed, features slack with sleep. There was no sign of his shirt, but he could still smell it vaguely in the room.

Dean smiled. At least some of the stuff he'd read about soothing omegas was accurate.

* * *

Sam woke for the third, and last, time that morning at 8:38 – considerably later than he had originally intended or hoped. He wasn't sure whether it was his father's quiet knock on his door that woke him, or the scent of his father's pheromones seeping commandingly into the room. Maybe both, even.

Much to his relief, his father's call _("Get showered and dressed, Sam. I'll bring breakfast upstairs with me in ten, and I want you ready by then.")_ didn't send him scurrying into the corner in a panic.

It did, however, send him rummaging in his drawer for one of the pilfered granola bars as soon as his father's footsteps faded away. Even though it was dry and a little stale, it still tasted delicious to Sam, because it was _his_ choice to eat it, and the only hand feeding it to him was his own. He devoured it quickly and stashed the wrapper in the back corner of the cabinet under the sink, hoping to safely dispose of it that night. Then he brushed his teeth twice to make sure no evidence remained.

As he showered mechanically _(don'tlookdown)_ , the granola began to sit heavily in his stomach. There was no reason it should make him feel sick; he'd eaten bars just like it countless times before, and granola was definitely on all of the damn "omega-approved" food lists that kept them "trim and healthy" (i.e., thin and just a bit on the stupid side because of the lowered amounts of proteins). So anything he was feeling had to be psychosomatic, some guilt circuit tripped by the stupid parasitic wiring that was apparently successfully invading his brain. He hadn't broken the letter of the law, but the omega-wiring knew his father _(alpha)_ would be displeased if he knew, and so it was freaking out over the possibility of him finding out.

Which his dad _wouldn't_ if his goddamn hyperactive omega pheromones didn't give it away, Sam thought angrily. He searched for the old mechanisms he'd always used when he needed to hide things from his family – anger, mostly, or a practiced indifference, the emotions that had worked so well just yesterday – but it was like that circuit was being muffled by the surging feelings of guilt and shame.

Sam flicked off the water and stepped out onto the bathroom tiles to towel himself off, still annoyed at the sour guilt tang on his now-clean skin. Maybe it was a matter of priority, he pondered absently, like maybe the emotion that got to the brain first got to run the show. It was an interesting thought, worth pursuing since he was clearly going to have to learn some new techniques for covering his emotions on the fly now that he was a–

His breath caught for a second as a new wave of shame flooded over him, one he couldn't fend off – _now that he was an omega._

He glared at himself in the mirror, scowling as he noticed that his jaw and cheekbones had gotten even more delicate and angular. His eyes looked bigger, too – but that _had_ to be an illusion, nothing he'd read said anything about that. He leaned in closer, his breath re-fogging the mirror as he pushed and pulled at the skin around his eyes, trying to figure out what had changed.

It was his eyelashes, he realized belatedly, amazed that he hadn't seen it before. They'd practically doubled in number and length, curling up and out from his eyes in a slightly feminine fashion, making his expression look more innocent and wide-open. They were almost–

"Sam? You good in there?"

He'd lost track of time again, staring at himself in the mirror. His pulse picked up.

He hadn't even heard John come into the bedroom, his father _(alpha)_ was outside the door and he wasn't ready yet, he was supposed to be done by now and–

"Sam?"

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "Sorry, I'll be right out."

He didn't bother trying to tell his Dad he was fine - anyone with a nose could tell otherwise. Although apparently panic did override guilt, so maybe if he could figure out a way to trigger it intentionally without losing control…

John knocked again. "Two minutes, Sam. Breakfast's getting cold."

Sam pulled on the fresh clothes he'd brought in with him as fast as he could, ignoring the itchiness of the jeans as he shelved that particular train of thought for later.

* * *

When Sam exited the bathroom, John was sitting on the unused bed waiting for him, holding a glass of water in one hand and a plate with a breakfast burrito on it in the other. Well, something like a breakfast burrito… it looked normal, and it didn't smell _bad_ … but the aroma was missing something. If he wasn't so scattered, he could probably place it, he could smell eggs, and onions, and red peppers, and–

He pulled up short, the scent forgotten as his breath caught and choked. _There was a pillow on the floor next to John's feet._

Sam swallowed hard.

John looked at him gently. "Everything is going to be okay, Sam," he said. "Come sit down. You can do this."

_It's just a pillow,_ Sam thought _._ He made himself walk over to the cushion, innocuous in its slightly shaggy baby blue fur cover.

It was just a pillow.

He tried to will his knees to bend, but he just– he just couldn't.

_It was different yesterday_ , he thought, flustered by his own unexpected resistance. _Why was it different_ _…?_

Yesterday, he'd already been sitting. He'd just had to slide down to the ground, not obeying an order so much as just not resisting gravity, but this…

"Sit, Sam," John said firmly, and this time there was a hint of alpha steel to his voice, not a full-on Command, but a warning.

Sam breathed in, letting John's scent fill his throat – and sat down on the bed. _It's not disobedience,_ he thought desperately at the parasite squirming inside his nerves. _I'm not disobeying. He didn't specify the pillow. He said sit. I sat. Letter of the law._

John's frustrated growl was almost worth the renewed panic that flushed through him at the sound of his obviously displeased father _(alpha)_.

Sam took a breath, fighting to stay where he was. "Can– can't we just do it from here? We're not in any public area, no one's going to see me."

"Sam," John's voice was steely, laced with disappointment. "You agreed yesterday to work with me. You _have_ to get used to this."

Sam shut his mouth and swallowed, throat dry. Sitting next to John on the bed, only a plate of food between them, he was suddenly aware of how much shorter he'd become in just a few days. Before he'd have been at eye level with his father. Now he had to tilt his head and look up. He felt… small.

His nostrils flared as he breathed in, suddenly suffused not only in his father's frustration, but in the underlying worry and concern. He'd never gotten this level of information from pheromones as an alpha. Although Dean's nose had always been so sharper, so maybe Sam had just never cared enough to notice before. If he were honest with himself, he'd been far more concerned with winning arguments and proving himself to his father than he had been with anything like that. Or maybe this was an omega thing, some kind of evolutionary self-preservation measure, a heightened awareness to improve his ability to respond properly to his alpha's moods.

He inhaled again, and the previous day's same lassitude and warm calmness slowly began to creep over him, numbing his emotional distress. Even the jeans felt more bearable. _Pick your battles_ , the little voice in his head said calmly. _This is just breakfast, not the hill you need to die on._

Sam closed his eyes. _If I can't see it, it isn't really happening_ , he thought a little hysterically, then relaxed his muscles and let himself slide off the bed, his knees folding underneath him when they reached the pillow. Then he leaned his head against his father's knee, eyes still shut.

He only opened his eyes when his father's fingers pressed the first piece of the breakfast burrito against his lips. It tasted like cardboard, but he ate it anyway, tofu and all. _(That was what was wrong with the smell, the lack of any sausage or bacon, because some alpha or beta nutritionist somewhere who never had to worry about it decided that omegas shouldn't get too much meat in the morning)_. Then he let his father chase it down with water and his stupid omega vitamins, swallowing each obediently as he waited for the comforting, fuzzy fog to arrive.

About half an hour later, to Sam's relief, it finally did.

* * *

"I don't get it," Dean said broodingly. "I thought Dad had some big plan for getting Sammy squared away and ready for his O tests." He stood back from the engine of the Ford pickup he and Bobby were dismantling and glared back towards the house.

Bobby followed his gaze. Through the open curtains of the front window, he could see John and Sam sitting in the living room much the same way they had yesterday. Sam was seated on the ground, leaning against John with his head on his father's thigh.

Dean stepped back from the pickup and put his hands up on its hood, unlocking the support that kept the hood in the air with his right while the left kept it from falling down on his head. "They've been there _all day._ " He scowled. "I don't see why I can't be around Sam if all they're gonna do is sit around and talk. What am I supposed to be disrupting?" He slammed the hood shut, the truck bouncing slightly from the force of it.

The kid had a point, Bobby thought. He snorted. So much for John's detailed schedule. _The best laid plans of alphas and omegas_ _…_

"Maybe so, but don't take it out on the truck. Least not 'til we finish getting the engine outta it." Bobby wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve. "Your father had a plan, all right, but _had_ is the operative word. Stupid idjit wouldn't listen to me this morning when I tried to tell him this would happen."

Dean looked puzzled. "Tell him _what_ would happen?"

"Christ," Bobby scoffed. "Am I the only one who actually finished researching this thing?" He put the wrenches he was holding back into their places in the socket set and closed the box. "Your dad and Sam are mooning right now. Probably will for the rest of the week, too, like it or not."

Dean scratched his head and frowned. "Mooning after what?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Not that kind of mooning. _Honeymooning_ – according to those books your daddy brought home, it happens between alphas and new omegas." He picked up his tool box absently. "Kicks in once the turning pheromones calm down. Some kinda instinct-enforced getting-adjusted-to-one-another period, y'know, 'trust-building' and what-not. So don't make too much fun of your dad – if it was you sitting in there with Sam, you'd end up doing the same thing."

Dean's frowned deepened. "Yeah? If that's the case, we should have you in there helping Sam get started and get John out here with me, so we could stop wasting time."

Bobby clasped a hand on Dean's shoulders. "I thought about suggesting that this morning, too, but then I figured I'd just leave it be. It might feel like they're just spinning their wheels, but they're not."

He rested his toolbox on the pickup's hood and leaned back against the half-stripped truck, next to it. "You really think Sam's ready to handle everything he's gonna get tossed at him as an O?" He held Dean's gaze pointedly for a moment, until the alpha looked away. "Yeah, me neither."

Dean leaned against the car next to him, crossing his arms. "Maybe so, but what about the tests–? You think we've got the time for this?"

Bobby cocked his eyebrows at Dean. "Sam ever met a test he couldn't ace when there was something serious riding on it?"

Dean smiled with a slight laugh. "Kid's always been the worst kinda nerd," he said fondly.

"It's a terrible situation, Dean, but your brother's tough," Bobby said. "What he needs more than anything – regardless of what your father thinks – is some time to adapt."

Dean pushed himself up away from the truck and cracked his neck, then put his hands in his pockets. "So, what, we just let them sit around like this for the rest of the week?"

Bobby shrugged. "I got three more clunkers that need to get stripped for parts. I figure they'll be done with their mooning before we're done with the cars, and if they ain't – _then_ I'll let you slap yer Dad upside the head." The old hunter stood up away from the truck as well, scratched his stomach, and then picked up his toolbox. "But right now, that chili I've got in the crockpot should be just about perfect, and I'm starving, so let's go bring 'em back down to earth and get some chow on the table."

* * *

All in all, the day had been better than Sam was expecting. Of course, that was probably because there was a lot of it he didn't remember. It was nice to just sink down into the fog and simply _exist_ without really having to think or worry about anything. Sit here, eat this, follow me… following the directions was easy long as he didn't have to think about why he was doing it.

He was both glad and grateful that his father wasn't trying to push any kind of detailed training agenda. It was a little surprising, knowing his father, but maybe his breakdown in the kitchen had gotten through to the man. Whatever the reason, he'd take it.

The morning had passed quietly, the two of them just sitting together, often without speaking. There at his father's feet, Sam felt… young, in a way he hadn't for since his last growth spurt, and safe, in a way he probably hadn't for at least a decade. It had also probably been the longest concentration of time he'd spent alone with John without an argument breaking out since the day his eight-year-old self had decided he was old enough to read his father's mysterious, leather-bound journal.

Interspersed with the silence, his father had reminisced about things from Sam's childhood, thankfully mostly the happier memories. Sam had always assumed his father had tunnel-vision for anything that wasn't hunting, so he was surprised to find out how much attention their dad had been paying all along. He probably shouldn't have been; John Winchester's situational awareness and attention to detail were two of the things that had helped cement his reputation as an excellent hunter. Having an eye or two watching over them even while he was away and thought they were alone made sense. Of course, it didn't excuse their father for leaving his sons alone in the first place, having to fend for themselves for days (and sometimes weeks, once Sam had dropped his knot). But it was still nice to know.

In the afternoon, after another awkwardly hand-fed lunch, Sam had followed John back to the living room. As he moved to sit down next to his father, John favored him with a sad smile. "You look more like her than ever now," he sighed. "I wish you could have met her. "

It was a good thing Sam was already halfway sitting down, because his legs suddenly felt too wobbly to support him.

After a few moments, John spoke again. "You know, when I smelled how upset you were this morning, the first thing I thought – the only thing I could think – was how much I wished to hell and back that your mother was here to help you through this. She always knew the right things to say and do."

Sam froze, afraid to do anything that might disturb John's train of thought. For his entire life, one of the unspoken rules of the Winchester household had been No Big Conversations About Mom. Small things were acceptable, like "Mom made the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches," those were okay. So was talk about revenge on the yellow-eyed man who lurked out there in the darkness. And twice a year, once on her birthday and once on the day she'd died, their father would get himself well and truly drunk, and sometimes he would talk about her then. But Big Things, like how much she was missed, and how different things would have been if she were alive – and the biggest of all, whether she would have approved of the way John was raising her boys – _those_ were topics that everyone understood just didn't get brought up. _Ever_.

So when John leaned back in his chair and said that, Sam held his breath and viciously suppressed any bitterness that it had taken something like this to loosen his father's tongue. And miraculously, his father kept talking, the scent of love and regret flowering around him – but for once, none of the guilt and anger that usually followed right behind.

"Your mother loved you the very first moment she knew you existed," John said. "Just like your brother. The only man in the family she hated on sight was me."

Sam listened, spellbound, as his father reminisced about how he'd fallen for the beautiful blue-eyed beta the first time he'd laid eyes on her, pulled over to the side of the road with a flat tire. He'd acted like a typical alpha knothead, posturing and posing and condescendingly offering to fix her tire with the assumption that she couldn't possibly know anything about cars.

"She all but threw the tire iron at me for assuming she was just another blond beta bimbo," John laughed ruefully. "And then she snorted and tossed her hair, and told me if I wanted to make her job easier so badly, I could just stand there and give her something pretty to look at while _she_ finished the job, because there was nothing in any book anywhere that said alphas had a God-given monopoly on car repair." He sighed, eyes fixed on his distant memory. " _That_ took me down a peg or five, let me tell you. I was a cocky young shit, and she just knocked the wind right out of my stuffing. God knows I needed it."

John looked away, but not before Sam caught the glint of tears in his eyes. "She told me then that _what_ she was might determine what God meant for her to do, but that what she _did_ sure as hell didn't determine who she _was_ , and I would be a damn fool not to remember that." John's lips trembled as he smiled. "I think if she were here now, she'd be telling you the same thing. Like I said, she always knew the right thing to say."

Once Mary had finished changing her tire, John said, he'd apologized again over hamburgers at the local diner, and taken her words to heart. If she wanted to change a tire, he was certainly not going to get in her way. In fact, a year later, after she'd agreed to let him put his ring on her finger, they'd even talked about her working at his auto shop once the kids were old enough for school, and maybe taking in an omega to help with her household duties.

Sam's mood soured at the whiff of arousal his father inadvertently let off before clamping down on his pheromones. It was clear that those "duties" would have extended into their bedroom. _Because after all_ , his mind supplied poisonously, _that's what betas need omegas for, right?_ To get a break from their kids in the daytime, and a break from their alphas at night.

For all that his mom had opened John's mind about how competent betas could be, she hadn't given much thought to the idea that omegas might be just as competent. She'd been a traditionalist at heart, with Betty-Crocker dreams of an alpha-run household where she was the stay-at-home beta queen, with a meek, sexy, barefoot omega at their beck and call.

John was wrong, Sam thought darkly. He could just imagine how it would have gone if Mary were here. Maybe she would have known nicer ways to say things, but it was more than clear that if she were there, she'd be backing John and Dean (and seemingly everyone else in society) on what omegas should and should not be doing. Sure, she might have fought for Sam's right to fix a car... but not fight, or hunt, or go to college.

Then again, if Mary had never died, they never would have been in godforsaken Hibbing to begin with, and he'd still be an alpha.

Sensing Sam's downturn in mood, if not the reason behind it, John rested his hand on Sam's shoulders and squeezed lightly. "She wouldn't have cared that you're an omega, Sam. She would have loved you even like this, son… and so do I."

_Even like this._ For years, Sam had wondered what it would take to get his father to acknowledge any kind of actual love or praise beyond "good job" or "nice shot." Now that he knew, he thought bitterly, he wished he could take it those wishes back.

* * *

His father didn't object when Sam asked if he could eat dinner in his room, away from everyone else. With the fog lifting, the thought of sitting at John's feet, unable to make eye contact with Dean or Bobby, made his skin crawl with revulsion.

John frowned. "You know that you'll eventually have to, right?"

Sam nodded, looking down and itching at his jeans. _Eventually_. But not then.

The sound of Bobby and Dean chatting and dinnerware clinking filtered in through the pause in conversation. They were setting the table, he knew, Dean getting out the bowls and Bobby ladling up heaping servings of his chili.

John made his decision. "You can eat your dinner up here if you bring your pillow upstairs and use it instead of the bed."

Sam looked at the pillow at his feet. It was large and shaggy, with concentric dark green and blue circles and gold tassel fringe. Whatever comfort he'd derived from it that afternoon had already begun to fade away, the last bits vanishing at the prospect of having to sit on it yet more.

Then again, getting spoon-fed like an infant was worse.

_Pick your battles_ , he reminded himself. He picked the pillow.

He realized too late that it was so oversized – five square feet of overly padded fluffiness – that his smaller frame would make it really awkward to carry. He hadn't just lost height, Sam realized, trying and failing to fold the pillow into an easy-to-hold configuration. His arms, his shoulders, even his _fingers_ , were all smaller and thinner.

Sam glanced quickly at his father but no, the man wasn't waiting to mock him. In fact, he wasn't even looking at him at the moment, but instead leaning over with his back to him, digging through his duffel.

_Fuck it._ It was less mortifying to grab one of the pillow's corners in one hand and drag it behind him. He kept his head down, not wanting to answer any questions as he fled to the towards the stairs, the pillow softly _shuffing_ against the floor behind him.

"You're getting it all dusty like that," John said disapprovingly without looking around. "Pick it up and carry it, or eat down here."

Sam felt his lip curl involuntarily into a scowl. Half of him, the parasite's half, desperately wanted to rush to comply. The other half was practically vibrating with the urge to throw the pillow at John, slam his way outdoors, and…

And…

_Yeah, like that had worked out so well for him the last time._

He gritted his teeth. _Just get through this._ With a sigh, he gathered the cushion in his arms and just kind of squooshed it all together, like a kid hugging a weird, oversized stuffed animal. It felt like a betrayal that the sensation was oddly comforting.

He lifted the pillow up a little higher and tilted his chest back to keep it clear of the floor. The position was awkward, and meant he had to take the stairs one at a time, slowly, so he wouldn't trip on its fringe.

There was some kind of weird wheezing sound from Bobby as he passed the kitchen, followed a few seconds later by an explosive cough from Dean. Part of him wanted to turn around and see what was up, but the rest of him was too busy trying to avoid adding any further humiliation to the situation. He clenched his mouth shut and kept going, step by step by step.

He _was_ petty enough to hope the sounds he'd heard meant that Bobby'd somehow added way too many spices to the chili. That way everyone else's dinner would be as miserable as his.

* * *

In the kitchen, Dean wiped the tears from his eyes. He'd had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "Goddamn it, Bobby, I'm going to hell."

The beta looked up from mopping up the beer he'd spit out when Sam had stomped by like a sulky five-year-old. "You and me both, kid."

Dean sat down heavily in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose where the plugs made it ache. "God, I know this makes me the world's worst person. There's not a single thing worth laughing about this whole mess, and if you _ever_ tell Sam I said anything I will find some way to get revenge… but Jesus Christ, was Sam lugging that pillow upstairs the cutest goddamn thing you've ever seen or what?"

Bobby winced and chuckled, shaking his head. "Second cutest. Remember when you won him that bear at the State Fair when John left you two here for the summer? This scrawny little kid carrying a bear as big as he was all over the fairgrounds? That was cuter."

Dean nodded. "He used it as a pillow for the next six months, too, until a ghoul got a lucky bite in and Dad bled all over it down in Tulsa. We burned it with the ghoul, and packed out early the next morning before Sam was awake. The poor kid thought we'd left it behind at the motel – cried for two hours when Dad wouldn't turn around to go get it."

"Poor kid never could catch a break," Bobby muttered.

By the time John came in a minute later to tell them Sam was going to eat upstairs, the good mood was long gone.

* * *

_"Remember, this is temporary. By next week, I expect you to be joining everyone else in the kitchen at mealtime."_

Sam stared down at the bowl of chili, trying to will his appetite back. It smelled good – spicy and warm, with a hint of the beer that was Bobby's special ingredient. He knew it would taste as good as it smelled, too. He was just afraid of how it would taste coming back up.

_"Your body is still burning through calories, so expect you to finish the whole bowl. If you don't think you can do that on your own, I can stay and help you."_

John had come upstairs with the bowl in one hand, his evening vitamins and a glass of water in the other, and another now-familiar bottle of that omega shake drink and a book tucked under the arm holding the bowl. Sam had been waiting, standing next to the pillow. His father had glanced at him, then down at the floor, then back up pointedly. With a sigh, he'd sat down on the pillow – cross-legged, not kneeling, but John had let it go with a nod anyway and just handed over the vitamins and the water glass.

Once Sam had downed the vitamins with the water, his father had traded the glass for the bowl and book – _Serenity: The Art of Letting Go._ It was the same one Sam had thrown across the room in anger before. Technically, that probably didn't count as actually "letting go," but it should.

_"You've always been good with the books, so I thought it would be good for you to read more about what to expect over the next few weeks."_

Old-school John had returned, all steel and stern focus. Whatever connectivity they'd shared during the day was gone, leaving John distant and unemotional. Fog-free and humiliated at how submissive and passive he'd let himself be all day, Sam had glanced at the title dismissively and placed it to one side – perhaps a little forcefully, in retrospect.

_"I know this is hard, so I'm trying to give you some room to breathe. But this is a two-way street. If you slack off tonight, tomorrow's evening will be a lot more structured."_

Sam had stared down at the chili instead of responding. Then John's hand had dropped against the back of his neck, a traditional alpha gesture of comfort. But Sam hadn't been expecting anything against his neck, and the touch had sent him scuttling sideways, knocking the book and the shake away. The spoon clattered against the rim of the bowl as he clutched it tight.

John had pulled his hand back like he'd been shocked, and then frowned, as if Sam had somehow disappointed him.

_"I'll be downstairs. You can read up here or on one of the other pillows downstairs in the living room. If you want to sit on the porch, your brother can keep you company. Lights out by 10:30 at the latest."_

Now, five minutes later, Sam's heart was still pounding. The moment John had left, he'd tossed the pillow into the small space between the bed and the wall, grabbed the bowl and the book, and retreated to the corner there. It was the safest position in the room. He could guard his back and keep an eye on both the window and the door.

The white shake bottle, fortunately still lidded, lay sadly abandoned on its side in the middle of the room, a weird toppled monument to his panic.

His neck burned where his father had touched him.

* * *

The chili had begun to congeal when Sam finally pried his fingers away from the bowl and reached for the spoon.

"'Bout time, kiddo. I was just about to get worried."

Sam startled, fumbling the bowl yet again as he realized Dean was leaning against the door frame – had in fact been standing there for a little while before Sam noticed him, long enough for his scent to roll in and fill the room. Sam breathed it in and felt himself relax a little more.

Dean raised his eyebrows and smiled. "You want a warm up?"

"Huh?" He couldn't mean–

Dean tilted his head toward the bowl.

_Oh_ , right, the chili, Sam thought. "No, it's – I was just letting it cool off. It's fine."

"Hey, no skin off my back," Dean raised his hands pacifyingly. "Although personally, I'd say half an hour might be overkill."

Half an hour–? He glanced out the window and realized the sun had set. "Oh. No, it's fine."

Dean shrugged at him. "Okay if I come in?"

Sam breathed in sharply, nostrils flaring, but smelled only concern and the faint amusement that Dean's resting scent often carried. He shrugged back. "Sure, I guess."

The alpha raised his hands together above his head, cracking his back, then dropped them back down and walked into the room. He picked up the shake as he walked over to the bed next to Sam's hideaway, then hopped on the foot of it, folding one leg under himself, the other knee bent – near Sam, but not within grabbing distance, he noted gratefully.

Dean leaned over and placed the shake on the bed where Sam could reach it, then leaned back, wrapping his arms around his knee. "Looks comfy."

Sam shrugged again. He stared down at the bowl and forced himself to begin eating it. "Did Dad send you?"

The bed creaked under Dean as he shifted position slightly, his neck and shoulders cracking them slightly as he rolled them. "Nah, he and Bobby went out for a walk a little while ago."

Uncle Bobby didn't take walks. "Walk," in Uncle Bobby's vernacular, meant target practice until the sun set and then beers and firefly-watching afterwards.

"So much for being downstairs," Sam muttered.

At first, he couldn't taste much of the chili. But soon enough the spices did their job, sending a warmth creeping through him. Or maybe that was due to Dean, who kept up a one-sided conversation about the car he and Bobby had worked on that day.

Before he knew it, the bowl was empty. He took the shake when Dean handed it to him and drank it without comment. And when Dean scooted up to the headboard and sat with his back to it, then patted the space next to him, he didn't think twice about hopping up on the bed and leaning against him. Although that peace only lasted about 15 minutes or so before Dean rolled his eyes and looked away and told Sam to get out of his goddamn jeans already if they were that uncomfortable.

Sam grumbled and crawled under the covers, contorting himself as he stripped the offending clothing off.

Wrapped snugly up in his blanket, Sam tried reading the book his father had left, Dean following along over his shoulder and occasionally making fun of the writer's super-new-agey floweriness. But the text was tedious, and his stomach was full, and Dean was warm.

_Tomorrow_ , he thought sleepily, letting the book drop out of his hands. He'd figure out a plan for dealing with things tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roughs of the next chapter will be appearing in [this SPNKink_Meme thread](https://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/97375.html?thread=44019039#t44019039) for those who just can't want to wait for the edited content to appear here. Warning: It still gets posted slowly. Just, y'know, not _quite_ as slowly.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is also being filled at [the SPNKink_Meme](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/97375.html?thread=37543519#t37543519). New chapters will appear there first and here shortly afterwards, once I've noticed all the embarrassing mistakes that inevitably got overlooked.


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